Held Captive by a Kiss
by megsy598
Summary: In a world where the last wizarding war was won by Lord Voldemort, Harry Potter is on the run. When he is captured by his enemies, he expects to be incarcerated, tortured - perhaps even killed. But a marriage was the last thing he thought they would punish him with. (Draco/Harry, set post-Hogwarts).
1. Chapter 1: Captive

A/N: This is a Draco/Harry story set four years after the Battle of Hogwarts, but in a world where Voldemort won. Enjoy!

Chapter One: Captive

When Draco and his mother sat at the dinner table in pleasant silence, the interruption of a burly wizard storming into the room like a raging giant had at first been a stabbing annoyance between Draco's shoulder blades. The oak doors to the dining room were flung open from the outside, and a figure in dark robes with dishevelled hair and ragged breaths entered. Narcissa Malfoy, sat opposite her son, let out a gasp at the sudden entrance, as Draco glanced up from his plate, a scowl spread across his sharp features, and immediately recognised the imposter as Gregory Goyle. As usual, Goyle's whole face was flushed scarlet from even the slightest bout of exercise, but now Draco recognised not only exhaustion but devilish excitement causing his friend's strained breathing, the kind of thrilled nature that only usually overcame the man when he was faced with a large buffet.

Draco stood from his seat at the head of the long dining table immediately at the sight of Goyle, and simultaneously slapped away a house elf trying to serve him more roast chicken. "What is it?" he addressed Goyle, with no need for greeting. With this, Goyle's large face broke into the most cunning grin that Draco had ever seen adorn his features and his eyes seemed to sparkle with a maleficent kind of joy.

"We've got him," he announced proudly. "We've got Harry Potter."

-TRANSITION-

It wasn't until he heard the distinctive sound of screaming and spells being cast that Harry wondered if perhaps it wasn't his greatest idea to spend the night sleeping in a fold-up tent in the middle of a public forest. He was shaken awake by the sounds, and found himself reaching for his wand and pouncing for the tent's entrance within seconds. His heart was pounding, his head doing the same due to lack of sleep, but he was alert enough to know Hermione's scream when he heard it.

"Hermione!" Harry called as he dove out of the tent, but knew his cry had been a grave mistake when he heard another hurtling scream from his best friend. He brandished his wand, holding it out in front of him like a shield from all the evil surrounding, but there was nothing he nor any magic in the world could do to sooth the sorrow and guilt he felt seeing Hermione. She was seized by a Death Eater clad in all black, her shoulders held firmly against his chest whilst a sharp wand prodded at her throat, threatening more than any words could.

"Harry Potter," mused a sly voice, joined by a toothless smile that broadened on the face of a nearby Death Eater. "We've been looking for you for a long time, haven't we?"

The tent Harry had emerged from just seconds ago was already surrounded by dark figures, all wearing the same dreary uniforms that Death Eaters had been loyal to for decades, and each holding out a wand with their choice of deadly curses tickling the end of each of their tongues. But Harry wasn't paying any attention to them, as his vision was trained solely on Hermione, whose eyes were wide and staring back at Harry's own with a pleading softness.

"Now, Potter, you'd better put that wand down, or I will be happy to do it for you - but it might not be so pleasant," warned the same Death Eater, the one with not a single tooth in his jaw and a face that was as gaunt and fleshless as a corpse. His hair was mousey brown, and fell over his face in clumps that looked as though they were wet, like he hadn't washed in weeks, but his stance of authority made it clear that he was the leader of this snarling pack. The men stared wildly with hunger in their eyes, like wolves who had been deprived of a meal for weeks, and Harry was their prey.

"Put down the bloody wand, boy!" the leader cried, and the others cheered their agreement. But Harry was rooted to his spot, and his wand wasn't leaving his grip without a fight. He towed his gaze from Hermione's and glanced around at the audience he'd roused, before holding his hands up as if he was going to surrender. The lead Death Eater grinned wider, but Harry was already flicking his wand at the nearest figure and casting in a whisper, "Expelliar-"

"Crucio!"

Somehow, the spell seemed to travel faster than sound, as Harry was sure he heard it well after the pain had already penetrated his stomach and sent him writhing on the ground. Or maybe it was an echo, or a second curse hitting him at another angle; he had no way of knowing, no feeling outside of the scream-inducing ache of the curse tearing through his body, seeming to rip everything apart before burning it under a blue flame. But it was a pain Harry had felt before, many times, and he refrained from screaming. Hermione, however, did not, and all Harry could hear was the wailing of his friend as the curse rippled through him in a way no other pain could.

Harry stumbled to his feet as soon as the pain had faded, only to find himself in a cage of cackling Death Eaters. There was a time when some of these men would have feared Harry Potter, or even uttering his name. A time soon after the peeking moments of the war, the battles that had resulted in the child they'd previously seen as the measly "Boy Who'd Lived" killing more men than he could count and being blinded by blood on a battle field, all the while watching his friends die before him, all in the name of hope.

But now these Death Eaters stood before him with no fear, only triumph - the same victory Harry himself would have shown at the sight of their deaths those few years ago.

"Take his wand and bind him," the leader ordered, and almost immediately a band of rough limbs grabbed Harry and tied his arms together with ropes of magic. "We'll be taking him to Malfoy Manor."

"And the mudblood?" a voice asked, and if Harry could have mustered the energy, rage would have filled his blood at the sound of the crude insult.  
There was a pause, as though the leader of the gang was considering his options, before he strolled into Harry's blurry vision and shrugged. "Kill her."

-TRANSITION-

In a second, the dining room fell deathly silent. Even the house elves were all suddenly rooted to the spot, one of them dropping a tray which clattered to the ground and muffled the gasp that arose from Narcissa's mouth. Ordinarily, Draco would have scolded the useless creature, but his eyes were trained on Goyle's grinning face, his focus wholly committed to the words that had just bombarded his senses. He didn't know whether he ought to be filled with immense joy or hatred.

He had to admit, at least to himself, that at the sound of the name "Potter" his teenage heart - which he knew was buried _somewhere_ deep inside him - swelled with all-encompassing joy. But for now, as his authority swelled with purpose, Draco knew that this was no time to indulge in childish fantasies. It was a delicate situation they were dealing with - Harry Potter would be no ordinary captive.

Draco turned back to Goyle with a stern expression. "Contact the Dark Lord immediately," he instructed. "And have them bring Potter to the ballroom. I should like to see him first."

Goyle scuttled away, dutiful as always, and Draco stood from his seat, his appetite having been cast away to make room for dutiful responsibility. He made to leave the table, but Narcissa promptly reached out to grab his hand.

"Draco, what are you doing?" she demanded, before her outburst softened into motherly concern. "I would advise that you leave Potter be until you meet with the Dark Lord and he instructs you on what to do with the boy."

Draco regarded his mother with a frown. Voldemort likely wouldn't be pleased that he had even touched Potter without permission, but whilst he respected his mother's advice, Draco couldn't allow the Dark Lord to have his way with Potter without Draco grasping the ample opportunity to see him first.

"I agree, Mother," he told Narcissa, careful with the words he used to craft the delicate lie. "I wish only to ensure that those brutes haven't done anything with Potter that the Dark Lord may not be pleased with. It shall be a quick visit, as I do not intend to keep him waiting. I'll see you tomorrow at breakfast, Mother."

Draco left the dining room with as much haste as he could muster, silently cursing to himself about how annoyingly large the room suddenly seemed, whilst Narcissa watched her son walk away with worry in her glassy blue eyes.

-TRANSITION-

Draco entered the ballroom and was immediately struck with how full the room was. He'd been aware that a group of Death Eaters had caught Potter, but he hadn't imagined so many would have been needed to catch one young wizard. Half of the Death Eaters regarded him with suspicious looks, whilst the others barely took any notice of him, instead staring off into the distance and thinking of dinner. None of them regarded him with the same fearful respect as they had Draco's father, and whilst he was used to it by now, Draco resented every time he was faced with the fact. No - they reserved that level of respect for the Dark Lord, and him alone.

Before the doors had even swung shut behind him, one of the men who seemed to be holding a rag doll in one of his hands threw the figure forward at Draco's feet. Draco at first didn't even comprehend that it was a person, and was readying himself to bark at them for throwing things so carelessly, before he recognised the raven black of the boy's hair and the slightness of his frame, and inwardly smiled that the sight of a broken Potter at his feet. It was a more satisfying sight than Draco had expected.

Potter was bound at the wrists and blindfolded, and his clothes - Muggle clothes, of course - seemed dishevelled and torn in places.

Draco nodded for the man ahead of him to remove the blindfold from Potter's head, and he did so obediently, albeit with a little resentment in his movements. Once freed, Potter didn't move. His eyes remained fixed to the floor, and he seemed to be shaking due to something other than cold. It reminded Draco of the after effects of the Cruciatus curse, which he'd both witnessed and suffered through before.

Draco sent a silent look of heated rage over the men dotted around the room at the idea that they'd hurtled unforgivable curses at Potter so carelessly. None of them understood the importance Harry Potter held to the Dark Lord. They had been hunting him for years, practically since the boy's birth, and at the first sight of him they were intent on almost killing him before Voldemort had even had a look at him. Draco only hoped the Dark Lord wouldn't blame him for his men's mistake.

"Stand up Potter, unless you intend to propose," he ordered in the strongest voice he could muster, and in an instant the boy's head shot up and his green eyes caught on Draco's blue.

Potter's eyes became wide and vulnerable, and for a second his mouth opened but no sound came. "M-Malfoy?" he finally spluttered. "What are you doing here?"

"Well, it may come as a surprise to your lack of perceptive skills, Potter, but I _live_ here," Draco scoffed, wondering in a delirious second how long it had been since he'd heard that defensive voice.

"But I thought your father would -"

"My father is dead," Draco announced, as Potter stared at him with his eyebrows furrowed. "He was killed by one of your murderous friends during the war, so I am now the Head of the Malfoy house."

Draco was perplexed by the blank look Potter regarded him with at this news. He'd assumed that Potter knew of Lucius' death since his side of the battlefield had sent the curse that had killed him, but the confusion on the younger boy's face now made it clear that he'd been unaware. Immediately, Draco's thoughts took on a blinding rage, at the idea that either his father's killer hadn't seen Lucius as a feat worth bragging about, or Potter had cared so little upon hearing about it that he'd forgotten.

"I-I'm -" Harry began to stutter, but the moment Draco realised that he was about to apologise he held up a hand to silence him before he could utter another word.

"Please," he laughed, but he could tell that the sound was empty as it left his throat. "I don't need your meaningless apologies burning my ears. Now stand up before I make one of these men haul you to your feet by your hair."

Potter rocked forward suddenly at the words and hastily tried to place a steady foot on the ground, but with every attempt his body seemed too heavy for his legs to cope, and instead of standing he only shook, his limbs quaking harder than anything Draco had ever witnessed. After the third attempt, his legs finally gave in, and he tumbled into a heap on the floor.

The Death Eater, whom Draco was now beginning to recognise as one of his mother's distant relatives, sent him a questioning look, no doubt regarding his threats to Potter. Draco sighed, looking down on the crumbled Gryffindor at his feet and trying not to wonder how his skin would be to touch, before nodding reluctantly and watching the hunter's snarl that crossed the man's face.

The Death Eater's hand crashed down on the back of Potter's head within moments of him being given the nod of approval, and the black locks were crushed in a fist and yanked firmly upwards. Potter soon followed, as he was pulled by the roots of his hair into an unstable standing position.

"There," Draco said once Potter was on his feet, and forced a sardonic beam at the dark frown carved into the boy's face. "Oh, cheer up. It's been a fun little game you've played over the last few years, what with you running away, us having to track you down, and all the spells and curses and such our parties have thrown at each other. But you've been caught now, Potter, and I for one am curious to know what you've been up to all this time."

For a long pause, Potter said nothing, his green eyes staring straight at Draco without wavering, and nor did his lips move. Draco could admit; he was quick to become impatient.

"Come on!" Draco growled impatiently. "You're here now, and there are no more of your little friends to save you. The Order has been disbanded, most of them are dead anyway, and I'll have you know, this building is more heavily warded and guarded than the Ministry and Hogwarts put together. You're at our mercy now, Potter, so you'd better start talking or else."

Draco couldn't think of a violent enough threat for his words to mean anything, his mind preoccupied by the deep red shade of Potter's bottom lip as he gnawed anxiously on it. But it seemed he didn't need one anyway, as Potter sighed and stumbled into a speech without need for any more encouragement.

"After the war, we went to Beauxbatons," Harry began. "It became the safest place to hide from Death Eaters after the war, but you probably know that."

"Hm," Draco hummed, remembering the day that the Dark Lord's troops had stormed that sorry excuse for a school just as they had to Hogwarts only a short year prior. He'd accompanied them that day, against the wishes of his mother of course, but although he had fond memories of the bloodshed and slaughter on the trimmed grass of the palace's front lawn, his recall was also plagued by the memory of later hearing that his father had not survived through the battle. For that was the day Lucius had been killed.

Potter continued on: "When the school was invaded, we fled, and travelled Europe and Asia for as long as we could, trying to keep two steps ahead of any Death Eaters that might have been on our trail. Then we came back here last month."

Draco frowned; the briefness of Potter's account seemed oddly suspicious. "Why did you return to England then? Wasn't that a little risky?"

"Clearly," Potter retorted through gritted teeth, before he sighed, his gaze hitting the floor like a bag of cement. "The last attack... One of us didn't make it. We had to come to bury his body, I-"

"Ah, the Weasel," Draco said, nodding in recognition with no remorse for the fact that the man was dead. "I was wondering why he wasn't with you. I guess it's a blessing really, or else I would have had a rodent in my home when they captured you. A worthwhile sacrifice on Weasley's part, I'd say."

Draco laughed at the lame attempt at a glare that Potter send him then, and must have closed his eyes for longer than a blink, for when he opened them there was a shot of sudden pain on the bridge of his nose. He looked up to see Potter's fist recoiling from where it had just hit him in the face, before the Death Eater stood behind him suddenly decided to grab Potter by the arms and pull him back within a safe distance. Draco found his timing odd, as he'd clearly been close enough to catch Potter _before_ he'd been able to strike Draco hard in the nose. But then again, Draco was anything but ignorant, and he had no doubt that the man had been willing the boy to hit him the whole time. As Draco regarded the man now, with his dark curls and slender yet muscled figure, he couldn't argue against the distinctive trace of Black in his features.

"There was no need for that," Draco addressed Potter, deciding to ignore the incompetence of the Death Eater who now held Potter's arms behind him in an awkward and no doubt painful fashion. "You're going to have to learn some self-control, or your time here is going to be incredibly difficult."

Potter was breathing heavily, and the scowl obscuring the beauty of his features hadn't shifted. Draco hadn't realised, but the left lens of Potter's glasses was cracked. "What do plan to do to me?" the Gryffindor asked, pained and breathless.

"Me?" Draco laughed at his ignorance. "I plan to deliver you to the Dark Lord, and _he_ will decide what we do with you. You have apparently become quite important to him. Perhaps he will put you in the abandoned cells of Azkaban, with only the dementors as company. It would be _safe_... Although I doubt you'd return with your mind still intact."

He saw Potter gulp at the idea, and Draco grinned at the fear he had for the dementors. He'd never understood the depth of that fear, not since he'd first seen the creature emerge from the boggart in their third year Defence class, with that insufferable Professor Lupin. What was so terrifying about a ghost in dark clothing, other than the cold and darkness that seemed to follow the dementors wherever they went? He'd tried to ask his Aunt Bella about such quandaries in earlier years, but it was the one topic she shied from.

"Any more questions?" Draco sighed. He was beginning to bore over watching Potter in both his physical and emotional struggles, but dreaded leaving - his next port of call was likely to be a conversation with the Dark Lord, which he never enjoyed.

"What did they do with Hermione?" Potter blurted suddenly.

"Granger?" Draco questioned. He hadn't much care for the mudblood, but there were very few things the Death Eaters ever did to those they captured. He shrugged. "I'd imagine they executed her."

Potter's face was instantly hit with devastation, but Draco's attention was distracted by a loud _POP!_ that sounded from just behind him. He turned suddenly to find a tiny, poorly clothed house elf standing at his feet.

"Master Malfoy," the creature uttered in its usual annoyingly squeaky voice (Draco had inquired into whether there was any magic that could alter the house elves' voices to sound less like irritating children, but it seemed there was nothing that could be done about it). "The Dark Lord has arrived, and wishes to see you in his private quarters," the elf reported.

Draco nodded and kicked the thing away from him - it was close enough to reach out and hug onto his leg, for Merlin's sake - and replied, "Alert him that I will be there momentarily," before the elf disappeared as quickly as it had popped into existence.

"Well, Potter, it seems your fate will be determined soon," Draco announced. "The Dark Lord will no doubt like to see you once we've spoken, but for now..." He nodded at the Death Eater, who still restrained Potter and didn't seem willing to let go. "Take him to the dungeons."

-TRANSITION-

A stone wall seemed to have tumbled down on Harry's head at some point on his way to the Manner, as his skull felt as if it weighed more than one made of gold. His head was hung, his neck having lost all strength to hold it up, and the rough movement of the surrounding men marching him this way and that had his jaw bashing against his chest so hard that it ached. He was held up by his arms, half-dragged, half-shoved ahead by the Death Eaters at his sides, as his legs stumbled in their efforts to catch up. Their steps were so much quicker than his, and steadier than his own feet which caved under even an ounce of his weight. He was so tired that his eyelids could hardly withstand staying open for more than a few seconds, and when his vision did flash before him, time seemed to have slowed down to a rate where he was forced to remain stagnant; in other words, Harry was trapped.

Over time, Harry's fatigue was replaced with panic. A spiral staircase ahead of him twisted around a metal column that plummeted miles into the ground, but there was no way of seeing the end, and Harry was only able to pear through the cracks in the rock to see an abyss below. It was dizzying, the sight of step after step after step appearing as another degree around the corner came into his vision, and his stumbling feet and weak ankles threatened to collapse any moment and send him tumbling down the staircase forever, never reaching the bottom. Worse than that, he'd caught a glance of the devilish expressions on the Death Eaters' faces as they towed him away, and could only imagine what they wished to do to him before they abandoned him, abused and broken, in his cell. Somehow, the dungeons alone seemed more appealing.

Trudging boots on stone halted when they reached the dungeons, but in his hazy state of mind Harry was unaware until he was thrown suddenly forwards, and the looming fear of falling became a momentary reality. The tight grip on his forearms disappeared, and he fell face first onto a concrete floor, his bare forearms crying out at the sharp pain. He heard laughter from behind him, deep and mellow, before footsteps retracted and a door swung shut.

Groaning, Harry tried to pick himself up from the floor, but what with depleted energy resources and his hands tied in front of him, he found it more difficult than he'd have imagined. Instead, he rolled onto his back and breathed in deeply through his nose, trying to concentrate as much as his pounding skull would allow as he angled a penetrating stare at the bindings holding his wrists together. He'd practised wandless magic before, but never with such a wand-specific spell as this. Imagining his wand casting the spell in his mind, Harry murmured, _"Diffindo,"_ and the ropes swiftly fell apart in a flash of bright green light.

Harry sighed, and rubbed at his wrists even though the ache hanging like bracelets from them was the least of his worries. His eyes scanned the cell, barely noting much more than the four solid walls, all of which were bare of even a metal grated window and caught any light that lingered in the air. From the little Harry could see, the ground beneath him seemed to be as sparse as the room's walls, stained only with grime and dust accumulated by centuries of misuse. But Harry could think of many things worse than a little dirt, and shuffled eagerly over to the nearest wall to rest himself upright against.

It had been years since he'd seen Voldemort, he realised. The two enemies hadn't crossed paths since the war - not directly at least, although Harry had encountered plenty of Death Eaters. Voldemort - or Tom, as Harry had grown to think of him as - had gradually become a distant thought for Harry as the years ticked by, a threat he knew was coming after him but one that took him a minute to form in his mind. He'd often woken up in the middle of the night wondering if any of it had been real, but now he couldn't pretend. He was locked in a cell at The Dark Lord's mercy.

Draco Malfoy - now that was an unexpected addition. Harry guessed he'd always known that Malfoy would end up as one of Tom's pawns one day, but he couldn't get the school boy he'd once known out of his head. Harry could easily recall every inch of Malfoy's snide features from those days, from the pale hue of his skin, to his deathly white hair, to the scowl that fitted his face so well Harry couldn't imagine him without it. Now Malfoy had grown up, no longer full of snide comments and childish competition, but of honour and loyalty - and frankly, it scared Harry. Malfoy had always been an empty threat in the corner of his vision, the one conflict he knew wouldn't end in either one of their deaths, half because Malfoy was a coward but also since Harry knew he'd never have the heart to kill him. Now, and he guessed since that night when Malfoy had pointed his wand at Albus Dumbledore, with tears staining his cheeks in strain, he was no longer an imagined danger.

But more than that, the mention of Ron's death and the heartless jokes Malfoy had made about it kept prodding at Harry's consciousness, keeping him far from peaceful sleep. He could still see Ron's face now, fearful but brave, his ginger hair messy and his face coated in stubble and sweat, rushing to par an attack sent straight at Hermione. Not that the intelligent witch couldn't handle it herself, but Ron had always been big on protecting the people he loved, especially her.

Ron's death had been his fault, Harry knew. If only he hadn't been complacent, if only he'd kept them moving so that the Death Eaters had never caught up with them... There were so many things he wished he had done but couldn't go back and change. And now Hermione was dead, another corpse to add to the growing list that hung over him and made his heart throb with guilt and grief. He closed his eyes against the darkness of his cell around him and let his weight rely heavily on the wall at his back. But as much as he tried to sleep, thoughts of his friends and his growing loneliness made his eyes sting and water until he was plunged into sleep.

-TRANSITION-

Draco Malfoy had found, through his many years of witnessing the Dark Lord coming and going from his family home, that the Manor itself, along with all of its residents, seemed to take on a new atmosphere at the arrival of Voldemort. He could sense it now, growing stronger with every step he took down the hallways that seemed to stretch for days, and even beneath intuition telling him that there was nothing to fear - at least from this visit - his lingering childhood fears were still ignited at the idea that he would soon face him.

A grand marble arch appeared at the end of the corridor ahead of him in the blink of an eye, and Draco marched towards it. The Dark Lord had possessed his own private chambers in the Manor since Draco had been a child, and the space allowed him to come and go as he pleased, casting away the entrance when he did not wish to be disturbed. Beyond the arch was abyss, nothing but dark, menacing swirls that reached out to grab Draco by the collar and rein him in. It was a portal, strung from dark magic that swarmed under its surface like bees trapped under glass.

Draco reached the portal and paused before it, staring into the darkness like it was a mirror that threw back a reflection of his soul. He felt his pulse ebb at his wrist, the serpent shaped tattoo that was burned into his skin sensing its master's closeness. Draco tried to ignore its existence most of the time, perpetually wearing long-sleeved robes that made him hot and sticky with sweat through burning summers, and all to conceal the concentrated scar of his self-hatred. But when in the presence of the Dark Lord, the ghastly markings came alive. Draco could feel the tingling sensation of the snake slithering around under his skin, wrapping around his wrist and tightening, like a cuff that held him in his place so he couldn't run. He was sure it was the Dark Lord's doing - a tattoo, even magical, couldn't have a mind of its own - but he dared not confront the wizard about it for fear of his life.

"Come in, young Draco." The voice was venomous, and stabbed through the portal's surface the way a blade sliced water. Draco's whole body shivered, a rumble of doubt and fear making his very blood tremble, but he stepped through the portal with a stride that carried more confidence than he would ever be able to muster. He tried his best to ignore the eerie feeling of the portal's material washing him with darkness, and kept his eyes trained on the floor until he stood in front of the Dark Lord, where he looked up at the wizard's face.

And what a ghastly face it was that greeted him. The dark, soulless eyes; the serpentine nose; the gaunt features, bony and seeming to be collapsing in on themselves - all of this Draco had seen before, but it struck him as just as terrifying every new instance he was faced with it. He wished he didn't have to look this ugly, deformed creature in the face, but Voldemort's deadly gaze paralysed him, and he knew that it would be the death of him to glance away first. The air in the room was different to that of outside: darker, heavier, as if he was still submerged in the dark fluid that made up the portal. Draco ignored as best as he could the feeling of strangulation it had on every one of his breaths.

"Draco," Voldemort drawled in a long, almost bored tone. He smiled, but with his jagged, golden-yellow teeth it looked more like a grimace. "I hear you have news for me?"

"I do," Draco choked, reminding himself not to stutter - he had done so once and paid the price, soon learning that the Dark Lord did not like to see weakness in the eyes of his followers. "Harry Potter has been captured."

The Dark Lord's eyes were pulled off of Draco's, and the blonde was able to indulge in a deep, much-needed breath as Voldemort's half smile faded into a look of nostalgia. "Harry Potter," he mused, but didn't divulge any of his inner thoughts. "What did you do with him?"

"He is in the dungeons for now. I can have him brought up to you if you wish to -"

"Brought here?" Voldemort laughed as Draco's stomach turned to mush. "Why would I want the Chosen One brought within any distance of me? There is a prophecy that he will _kill_ me, and one I take very seriously." He grilled Draco with yet another deathly stare that made the young man's pulse heighten with fear. "Do you, Draco?"

"Of course," Draco replied, trying - and failing - to emulate the tone of calm indifference his father had always held in front of the beast that stood before him now. "But may I remind you that the prophecy said _one_ of you would kill the other, my lord, not just Potter."

Voldemort shook his head and turned away to poke at the fire dancing in waves of pink and red flame behind him, using a metal stick that had hung on a rack from the mantel piece. It was a piece of furniture he had requested, that fireplace, and Draco heard that it was lit constantly so that he could throw misbehaving house elves into it. Even by Draco's unholy standards, he saw that as a little cruel.

When Voldemort turned back to Draco after a moment and he still held the stick, burning red from the flames, Draco feared for an instant that correcting him had been a bad idea. But Voldemort only sighed, either deciding against or never even considering a punishment. When his words came they were solemn, threaded with a tone of disappointment towards the situation at hand. "You may be right, Draco, but I am not going to kill Harry, that's for certain. He is a fragment of my soul, after all, thus killing him would be like stabbing myself in the stomach."

"Of course, my lord."

"Has he any injuries as of yet?"

Draco's throat snapped shut at the thought of Potter's treatment by the other Death Eaters, remembering how weak he'd been - he would be useless at defending himself. "A few cuts and bruises, and I suspect a few Cruciatus curses were used on him, but nothing lethal," he told Voldemort truthfully, and the man nodded, turning back to his fire without another word.

"What do you plan to do with him, my lord?" Draco asked curiously. He suspected he had stepped an inch or two out of line with the question when the Dark Lord's eyes flickered up in haste to meet his. But he retracted his assumptions when he found that the eyes were not narrow or murderous, but more docile than Draco had ever seen them. The Dark Lord must have been in one of his rare good moods.

"I'm unsure. It seems to be a difficult dilemma," he said, with a strange look on his devilish features that Draco hadn't witnessed before. It almost looked like... _Amusement?_ And not the kind that came with maiming and killing, but the sort of expression Draco had always suspected had sprung onto his own face at the sight of Potter recoiling from one of his insults. "You must have an idea or two, Draco. Please share."

Draco gulped. "I suggest he be sent to Azkaban," he confessed, and watched the Dark Lord's brows raise in intrigue. "The place is secure, nobody can get in or out so he cannot be harmed or escape, and the torture can be punishment for his war crimes."

Voldemort regarded his suggestion with a curious expression and a slight nod of his head. "What an... _interesting_ take," he said. "But no, I don't want Potter sent off to some island where I can't reach him, where anything can go wrong and I will be unable to do anything to stop it. In fact, I'd rather keep him closer. _Much_ closer."

Draco almost gagged at the suggestion in the Dark Lord's tone, the way his voice seemed to purr as though he was speaking of a lover rather than a boy who, four years prior, had been his mortal enemy. It was said in whispers through both the Manor and the rest of the country that the Lord had slipped down a spiral of insanity over the last few years, triggered by the discovery that Potter was his horcrux. Draco couldn't disagree, and the man's degrading sanity made him even more fearful, but he was nowhere near stupid enough to voice this.

"I see you have a large amount of protection here at the Manor," Voldemort commented, brandishing his poker as though it were a wand. "The Malfoy family have always been wealthy, and thus heavily protected. Your father was always very generous, allowing me to share his home, and he was a loyal follower." He smiled and laughed lightly at a joke Draco had clearly missed. "Are you loyal, Draco?"

"Yes, my lord," Draco choked. The phrase was an immediate response, formed from a lesson he'd learnt from birth: to never say no to the Dark Lord. But he was starting to wonder what the man had planned, and why his face carried such a cunning grin all of a sudden.

"Well then, I feel that the best course of action would be to make Harry a Malfoy."

Never before had Draco imagined he'd hear Potter's and his names in that context, much less coming from the mouth of the Dark Lord, and with not a shred of mockery. "A _what?"_ he felt himself utter, barely audible over the ringing in his ears where the Dark Lord's words seemed to have deafened him. But Voldemort was still speaking and his words dug at Draco's eardrums and forced him to listen.

"As a Malfoy, Harry will be protected from harm and will reside close enough for me to check his well-being," Voldemort explained. He sounded pleased with his plan, whilst Draco was swallowing the urge to throw up at the idea. "I expect you to be married within the week."

"Married?" Draco spluttered. "To _Potter?"_

The Dark Lord considered his with a narrow gaze, suspicious perhaps. "Yes. Is that a problem? I would hope not, if you are as loyal and devoted as you say you are."

"No, it is not an issue, my lord," Draco lied with all of the composure he could muster through his stifled rage. "I will begin making arrangements immediately."

"Excellent," Voldemort said dully, without any hint of a smile. "Though I do suggest that young Harry be kept in confinement until he fully adjusts to his new role."

 _His new role as my_ _husband_ _?!_ Draco thought, outraged below the surface. "Of course, my lord," he uttered through a tightly clenched jaw and teeth that would have shattered under any more pressure. Every bone in his body urged him to ambush the dark wizard ahead of him with every curse he could think of, but he refrained.

Draco left Voldemort's quarters with a shake in his step and a tremble in his every movement. The arch vanished behind him as he left, and for a split second of desperate rage, he was set on removing the chambers completely, in the hope that that the Dark Lord would cease to exist along with them. But he knew that would never work; what with his array of horcruxes splitting his soul into fragments, even considering the few Potter had managed to destroy, Voldemort was considered invincible - and Draco could do nothing to control the life his parents' decisions had made for him.


	2. Chapter 2: Engaged

A/N: I planned to have this chapter up on Wednesday - sorry it's so late! I'm not getting off to the greatest start, but Sunday will now be my weekly upload day (hopefully).

Chapter 2: Engaged

The concrete wall behind Harry's back tickled at his skin even through the fabric of his shirt. He was towed back into consciousness by the sensation, but quickly found that his thin clothing did little to nothing in fending off the cold that leaked steadily through the material, making his skin prickle into goose bumps.

Waking felt like being pulled back from the void, into a world where his back and arms had just been massaged using sand paper. His skin was chaffed and his throat was dry, but his head was clearer and better rested than it had been in years. Sleep, however, had been a much better place. It was peaceful and strangely filled with dreams that featured happiness, rather than pleading voices hidden behind a dark veil that stopped Harry from helping. It reminded him of another time: Back when he was eleven, in the autumn he'd began at Hogwarts, when all he had to worry about was homework and classes and Professor Snape's burning glare. Back when Voldemort was just a half forgotten threat in the back of everyone's mind, and something so far away Harry had barely thought about it

It was only when he opened his eyes that the real nightmare began, as the reality of the grimy ceiling above swamped him. Harry sat there in his cell accompanied only by four walls of silence for an eternity, but no matter how much he tried to return to sleep, his bodily ails were all too successful in keeping him awake. His stomach rumbled and his throat ached with every breath he took. He longed for water, or butter beer... It had been years since he'd tasted bubbles of butter beer on his tongue.

A loud _POP!_ rang through the air and deafened Harry's ears for a split second, as the world seemed to open up and reveal more than just is bleak surroundings and what lingered in Harry's thoughts. The distinct shape of a house elf could be spotted even in the meek darkness, stood before him with a tape measure in hand and a cheery grin upon his wrinkled face. For a moment, Harry forgot himself, as the figure reminded him of a friend he'd once known.

"Dobby?" he whispered, shocked by the idea that just maybe... But of course he was mistaken, and the house elf only chuckled slightly as he shook his head.

"Wonky, sir," he said, in a voice that was just as high pitched and squeaky as any other elf Harry had known. "Wonky is here to clothe you, Mr Potter, sir."

"Call me Harry," the dark-haired man corrected instinctively.

"Of course, Harry, sir," the elf piped, and clicked his fingers. Suddenly, the room was no longer a dark and dingy cell in the dungeons of Malfoy Manor, but had transformed into a cream-walled, wooden-floored dressing room. The space was still cool, and Harry had an inkling that it was all a glamour rather than transportation, but just the sight of a space that looked a little more ordinary was comforting to Harry, who had been living mostly in tents for the past six months.

"Please stand on the circle," Wonky told him, directing Harry to a circular platform in the middle of the room. Harry did as he was asked, and immediately the elf held up the charmed measuring tape clutched in his fingers. The tape slithered over Harry's limbs, seeming to have a mind of its own as it took his measurements.

"What are you doing?" Harry asked with a start at the sensation of an inanimate object tying itself around his waist. The elf clicked his fingers and made a pad and quill appear, on which he scrawled a few numbers, before glancing up at Harry.

"Wonky makes robes, Harry, sir. Wonky was asked to make a set of robes for Harry Potter." The elf took on a frightened look. "You are Harry Potter. Wonky was only following orders, sir, Wonky meant no harm -"

"No, it's fine! Really!" Harry reassured him desperately. He doubted that the Malfoys had changed their treatment of house elves in the slightest since Dobby had been around. In fact, if Draco really was now the head of the Manor, Harry was sure things would have only gotten worse for the poor creatures.

But despite his momentary worry, the elf had already returned to jotting down all of the measurements the charmed tape was recording. It stretched itself across Harry's chest, wrapped itself around his torso, and finally tapped Harry's elbow, prompting him to raise his arms so that it could lay across his arm span.

"Why do I need robes?"

The house elf looked up from his work and seemed confused by Harry's query. "Harry Potter must be well dressed for the wedding, sir. He needs robes for his wedding."

"My _what?"_ Harry was sure he'd heard something wrong.

"Your wedding, sir."

"My wedding? I'm getting married?" His mind boggled, searching and half fighting to find an explanation that was perhaps hidden somewhere in his memories, but there was none.

"Yes, Harry, sir. The service is scheduled for tomorrow morning."

Harry looked around, dazed, hoping there would be someone there to relieve his confusion. How long had he been out for? Maybe he was dreaming this, he thought. Perhaps even his whole life so far had been a dream, and in reality he was getting cold feet over a wedding and used dreams to forget. The idea was crazy - but anything seemed plausible compared to what the house elf was telling him now.

"Who am I _marrying?"_ he asked, finding the words tasted like bile on his tongue.

"To Mr. Malfoy, sir."

Harry's breath caught suddenly at the back of his mouth. _Malfoy._ His throat closed up around the name as it plagued him, pouring over him like rain dampening his mood, and stunning him in the process. He could just about gather enough breath to utter the words, " _Draco_ Malfoy?"

"Yes, sir. Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter are to be married mid-morning tomorrow. The grooms will need robes for the service, the reception, the after party, and a few other outfits Mr. Malfoy has requested himself."

Making an attempt to say something in response, Harry quickly found that he had no words - and anyhow, his tongue had rung dry. His eyes were trained on the tiny bits of dust floating around in the air, his mind racing so fast that all he could hear was white noise, whilst Wonky stared expectantly at him.

"May Wonky get back to his work now, Harry, sir?" the tiny creature asked, and Harry could only nod. He could think of nothing to sooth his rising panic, and stood as still as a statue whilst the tape measure continued its invasive work. But the elf must have been wrong, because never in a million years would he and Draco Malfoy ever be getting _married_. It had to be a mistake.

-TRANSITION-

"This must be a mistake." Though she tried to hide it, Narcissa Malfoy's voice was taunt with panic as she heard her son's news over the breakfast table that morning, and her face was contorted with worry.

Draco only sighed, taking yet another bite of the omelette before him. He had to say he agreed with his mother's worries: it was devastating news, but he had come to terms with it overnight, and he trusted that soon his mother would too.

His father, however - or rather his father's portrait, hung on the wall behind the head of the table - may never have been able to sooth his rage.

"A mistake?" His voice roared, just as sharp and dangerous as it had been when he had been alive. "This is not a mistake - this is an _OUTRAGE_!"

Previously, Draco would have cowered at the sound of his father's anger, but inside the cage of his frame, there was very little Lucius could do; Draco was no longer so afraid as his younger self.

"Oh, shut up, would you father," he snapped, silencing the portrait. "The dead have no business in this matter."

"You are _my_ son, Draco!" Lucius' voice thundered as he scowled down on his family from the wall. "You carry the family name and uphold its reputation. No matter what the Dark Lord says, I will _not_ stand by and allow the Malfoy name to go down in flames as you are wed to that damned Harry Potter!"

Draco sighed and took a sip from his goblet to sooth his urge to scream. It was too early in the morning for him to argue with Lucius, especially after spending the last hour trying to get rid of a house elf bugging him about what robes he wanted made for his wedding.

A _wedding._ Draco could still hardly believe what the Dark Lord had requested of him, nor why, but he wouldn't dare disobey - he valued his life after all. But all his parents seemed to be doing - Lucius in particular - was complain, and he couldn't stand it. He would have excused himself, but leaving the breakfast table meant he would be plunged into a whirlwind of preparations for the upcoming event. Putting up with his parents was the most peaceful his day was going to get, but being caught between his father's anger and his mother's concern was still hell.

"I will not let this go ahead!" Lucius roared, and Draco's tether seemed to snap. He dropped the cutlery gripped tightly between his fingers and listened to it clatter to the plate beneath. He was tempted to storm from the room immediately, before his mother's warm palm resting over his hand stopped him.

"Draco, dear," she said, and Draco gazed up to meet her eyes. His temper crumbled into dust. "You seem troubled?"

"Of course I'm troubled, mother," Draco sighed, but withdrew his hand from her touch. "I am being made to wed a man I despise, and everyone seems to have forgotten that he is meant to be the mortal enemy of the Dark Lord..."

"Things change, darling," Narcissa told him, to which Draco scoffed. "I know you two didn't get along in school, but it's been almost half a decade since then. Who knows, perhaps now you'll get along."

" _Get along?"_ Draco laughed. "Mother, the day Potter and I are able to refrain from killing each other will be the same day that I am able to make Father's portrait be quiet for more than half a second."

"Mind your tongue, Draco!" The portrait promptly snapped, but Draco and his mother simultaneously resigned to ignoring him.

"Maybe you ought to go and see Potter," Narcissa suggested calmly. "As I say, you haven't seen each other in years, and you're both older now. Surely you should be mature enough to at least be civil."

Draco doubted it, but he respected his mother enough to accept her advice with a prompt nod. Perhaps it would be a good idea to visit Potter. He couldn't deny that he wanted to see the other man again, and maybe even to touch those rumpled locks that had seemed so tantalising to him the previous evening. Who knew, perhaps Potter would be able to bite his tongue and Draco wouldn't be tempted to curse him.

But a cold voice disrupted Draco's thoughts:

"Yes, I agree with Narcissa. Perhaps you should spend some time with your new groom-to-be, Draco."

The voice echoed through Draco's ears and his blood ran cold with fear. The darkest of figures filled the room's entrance, seeming to cast a shadow over the entirety of the dining table before him. Voldemort, pale skinned and fixed with a sharp scowl as always, waltzed into the dining room with his usual gliding steps, as his perpetually black robes flowed behind him and lapped at his feet like waves. His eyes scoured across the room, as Draco and his mother rose swiftly to their feet, and the portrait of Lucius hung on the wall took on a fearful expression.

"What a lovely family meal," Voldemort commented, although his expression carried more aggression than amusement. "Although I must admit, the portrait seems to be ruining the atmosphere."

Lucius' frame seemed to be rocking as the portrait shivered in blatant fear. "M-My lord," he greeted. "What a pleasant sight."

"I'm afraid I can't say the same to you, Lucius," Voldemort said, before turning his toxic gaze on Draco. "I suggest you have that portrait burned immediately. It's clearly faulty, or your father's loyalty is something that ought to be questioned."

"Of course, my lord," Draco said, and looked to the guard stood stiff and unmoving beside the door. "You heard what he said. Remove the painting and burn it," he commanded, and the man leapt into action.

"No! Please, no, my lord!" the portrait cried, but the frame was already being pulled from its hook on the wall. Lucius' chair rocked and he swayed with the movement of the painting. "Please, I am loyal my lord! I've always been your most loyal follower; I would never betray -"

But Lucius toppled out of the frame as it was turned on its side, and the portrait was hauled away. Draco sighed at the peaceful silence, but noticed with a frown how sparse the wall looked without the grim accusation of his father's face pasted onto it.

"Now that monstrosity has been dealt with: Draco," the Dark Lord addressed him with a sly smile. Draco gulped despite his efforts not to. "I trust you have begun to make arrangements as planned?"

Draco nodded back, again having to swallow the bile collecting at the back of his throat with a suppressed wince. "The service is scheduled for nine o'clock tomorrow morning, my lord. All of the arrangements are being made swiftly."

Voldemort shook his head with a frown, muttering, "No, that just won't do."

Draco's blood boiled beneath the puppet plastic of his skin; he couldn't fathom what he'd done wrong, and even his own fear angered him. He'd done all the Dark Lord had asked of him - even accepting the preposterous marriage proposal in the first place - and now the man had the audacity to say it wasn't _enough?_ Draco clenched his fists at his sides, hoping that rage would conquer fear. But it did not, and the sight of Voldemort leering down at him still turned his stomach to mush.

"I am leaving the country early tomorrow morning," the Dark Lord announced. "There is some business elsewhere I need to attend. Thus, Draco, please ensure that the service is moved to this evening."

 _The Dark Lord wants to attend my wedding?_ Draco pondered, baffled. _Why?_ But, yet again, he could not question the request.

"It will be altered immediately, my lord," Draco promised beneath the blaring warning at the back of his mind. He bowed as Voldemort glided from the room with not a word more on the topic, and yet again he and Narcissa were alone in the dining room to ponder over the Dark Lord's words, this time free of any heckling from an outraged Lucius.

Draco returned swiftly to his seat, quickly followed by his mother, who took an immediate sip from her wine glass while Draco stared blankly at the plate of food before him; he'd lost his appetite. His mind was whirring, part stunned as to how his life had spun in this warped direction. By sunset tonight, he would be wed to the Boy Who Lived.

-TRANSITION-

The lounge was one of Draco's favourite rooms in the Manor, of which there were very few. Other than him residing to his bedroom at night and eating meals in the dining room, Draco rarely spent his time anywhere other than the first floor lounge, where he would read or work, or simply sit and ponder on the atrocities of life.

The room itself was as grand as any other within the house, with high ceilings and grand windows through which light flooded in during the day, and the moonlight shone down on, making the glass glimmer with speckled silver at night. The furniture was a dark shade of wood, ornate and polished to match the emerald green of every sofa, armchair or cushion in sight. Maybe the colour scheme alone made Draco a little biased - he'd always been overly fond of anything coloured green - but there was something about the room that made him feel as if he was separated from the outside world, caught in his own little bubble of existence.

Years ago, when he was young and bored over a long summer, Draco had stumbled across this room and claimed it as his own on first sight. It was easy to get lost within a building so vast as his home, and one was likely to find rooms they had never set foot in before. Draco had cast wards on the room from age fourteen, and protected it as his own so that only he could seek it out unless he gave someone specific instructions to go there. It was his place, after all, and the only space he felt safe in for most of his childhood.

Now, Draco leafed through the many books that lined the walls, stacked high and balanced precariously on shelves that reached all the way to the ceiling. His fingers trailed along their spines, touching every one and sensing the tears and creases that told loudly of their age. They were too precious to be kept in the library, where the filthy hands of visitors could rip them to shreds in an instant. Draco had never had much love for books, but he'd never felt the need to remove them from the room. They belonged here, and as, he felt, did he.

Why he'd decided to meet with Potter here he couldn't say, but the Gryffindor was late.

A trio of sharp knocks came at the door, and Draco's head shot up towards the sound, his thoughts instantly disrupted. "Come in," he called as his fingertips left the books and fell to his side. The oak doors swung open, and two figures entered: a man who remained unfamiliar and faceless to Draco, and the young man who he towed along beside him.

"What took so long?" Draco demanded, disregarding Potter for a moment whilst he set his impatience straight. "I requested for him to be here at eleven o'clock, and as you can see it is past that." He gestured towards the grandfather clock stood tall and proud in the corner of the room, but the man barely even glanced in its direction.

"I found this scum had riddled out of his ropes," the man grunted, shoving Potter by the side of the head and watching him stumble, before kicking him in the shin for good measure. Draco found himself clenching his teeth at the sight. "He had to be disciplined, sir."

" _I_ will decide when Potter needs to be _disciplined,_ " Draco snapped back. "Now close the door and bring him here. You've wasted enough time as it is."

The man did as he was asked. Draco found a seat on the couch and watched as Potter was shoved towards him by the rough guard. Potter's head was hung and his arms were left floppy at his sides as though they had no life in them. Draco's stomach clenched unintentionally at the thought that he might be hurt.

"Look up, Potter," he said in a murmur. His voice emerged softer than he intended, but it didn't matter, because the boy lifted his chin and looked back at Draco with a stern frown. The look was rigid and hateful, but at least his eyes weren't empty. In fact, the emerald green of his eyes, filled with life and hate, made Draco stare. They were stunning, and somehow he'd never realised before. Perhaps the shade wasn't quite as rich as the furniture around them, but Potter's irises were softer, almost humble. Draco couldn't look away, despite the scorn of Potter's scowl shining back at him. It was only when the guard, still stood at Potter's side, cleared his throat that Draco's attention was pulled away sharply.

"Where do you want these?" he asked, bored; his lack of manners was astounding. The man held up a fistful of chains to accompany his question, chains on the other end of which were Potter's wrists, ankles and neck, caught in metal cuffs. Chains which Draco had completely missed as he'd been too caught up in Potter's eyes to notice them. Now, at the sight, anger scoured through him.

"For Merlin's sake, take them off!" he ordered, and the man paused, stiffened as though he was being given an unorthodox task. "He may currently be locked in a cell, but that doesn't make him an animal. Unlock them!"

"But, sir, he's dangerous -"

"He very well may be, but he is also engaged to _me,_ and I will be much more dangerous to you if you don't do as I say!"

The man was spurred into action and the chains quickly fell away, but Potter's eyes were fixed on Draco's. His frown faded into curiosity and his lip's parted by just a whisker's worth of space.

"Staring, Potter?" Draco mused with a slight smile. "Like what you see?" Potter's eyes narrowed, but there was a noticeable blush reddening his cheeks. "Come, sit with me."

Potter sat obligingly, but stiffly also. His shoulders were slouched whereas his jaw was tight, and his eyes evaded Draco's in favour of staring at the blank space ahead.

"Would you like some tea?" Draco offered, gesturing towards the coffee table. Potter neither looked up nor said a word.

"Or a meal? I doubt you've eaten much."

Potter only shook his head and ignored Draco's invasive gaze once more.

"Lost your tongue, Potter?" Draco enquired, as he watched the Gryffindor stare around the room as though dazed. Potter's eyes flicked towards Draco, and for a moment he considered putting off any chatter and just spending the whole afternoon gazing into his eyes like a deluded teenage girl.

"Why did you bring me here?" Potter asked. His voice was hoarse, almost pained, and tinged with accusation. The boy - or man, yes he had definitely grown into a _man_ in the last few years - was plagued by suspicion.

"I wanted to talk," Draco said. He was almost as surprised as Potter's face expressed at the words. "It seems we are now... _engaged,_ after all. _"_

Potter noticeably shivered as Draco took a sip of tea to sooth his throat, which was tight and course from tension.

"I know," Potter muttered. "They told me." He paused for a second, hesitating, but the fidgeting of his hands in his lap made it clear that he wished to say more.

"Why do you want to marry me, Malfoy?"

Draco burst into laughter, and almost choked on a mouthful of tea which he gulped down before it could trickle into his airways.

"What _in the world_ makes you think I want to marry you?" he blurted, a little startled by the idea now that he thought about it.

"Well, the fact that we're _getting married_ seemed like a pretty clear cut sign!" Potter retorted. His expression showed not nearly as much amusement as Draco's did, but instead his face still carried that same stubborn frown and his words sounded more like an accusation than an explanation.

"Calm down, Potter," Draco soothed. "It's not the end of the world."

Draco hadn't noticed his traitorous hand reaching out to tip up Potter's chin until it was slapped away, and he retracted his fingers to cradle them. Potter rubbed at his chin where Draco had touched as though his skin was scorched by a flame, and Draco recalled briefly the roughness of it, infested with untamed stubble. When in school, Potter had seemed too small and measly to grow even a few whiskers on his face, but now a mere night locked in a cell had caused a slight shadow to be cast over his cheeks. Draco noticed then Potter's arms appeared larger, his chest more defined even through the loose t-shirt he was wearing; his whole appearance was a world away from the scrawny teenager he'd been years ago. This was not the same Harry Potter that Draco had known back then, but he had to say he wasn't completely opposed to the new features.

"So, you're telling me that you didn't plan this?" Potter asked sceptically.

"Trust me, I want to be married just as much as you do, Potter," Draco assured him, but the man didn't look very comforted. "I told you yesterday: The Dark Lord makes all of the decisions concerning your welfare, not I. And he deduced that the best course of action would be to have us married."

Potter's frown only deepened.

"Why would Voldemort want that?" Potter erupted in confusion. "For a _laugh?_ Has he gone insane?"

 _Yes, I suspect he has,_ Draco thought, but all the while held back the words with a bite of his tongue.

"It is neither mine nor your place to question the Dark Lord's intentions," he instead recited, and took another long sip of his tea. before realising that he would have preferred something stronger.

"Anyhow - Fancy a glass of fire whiskey?" Draco barely gave the other man a chance to utter a response before his wand shot out and summoned a bottle from a nearby cabinet. Two glasses followed and set themselves onto the coffee table as the whiskey poured itself, and Draco pressed a glass into Potter's hand as he took a much needed sip from his own.

Potter was still for a long moment, before a flicker in his gaze made Draco's eyebrows quirk. Was it his imagination, or had he just recognised a familiar look of determination in those green eyes, which were set on Draco's wand, now discarded on the table between them? Were Potter's fingers twitching out of nerves, or a tingling desire to reach out and grab it?

In a flash of movement, a second after Draco had thought it, his wand was in Potter's grasp and a spell was flying from its end, missing Draco's head by a foot but close enough for him to flinch. Potter was standing, advancing towards the guard at the door, who had pounced into action with his own wand in hand.

"Stupefy!" Potter cried, followed by a bout of useless curses that the guard only parred a second later, alert and blessed with quick reflexes.

But Draco's eyes were trained on Potter, whose hand flicked his wand every which way and sent sparks flying with every curse he uttered. The Gryffindor, as hard as it was for Draco to admit, was fairly skilled with a wand, and had he been handling an instrument that suited him the duel would have been his without question. But Draco's wand was stubborn, and fought every one of Potter's spells to make them clumsy and misguided. Most of them misfired completely, sent in random directions to collide with walls and doors, smashing windows and causing books to topple from their shelves. Potter and Draco were too different, and so the wand simply didn't agree with Potter - or anyone other than its master.

It was only a matter of time before a misfired spell gave Draco's guard just enough time to fire an attack himself, which caught Potter's wrist and sent the wand flying from his grasp. Another hit him in the chest and sent him tumbling to the ground, as the guard stood over him, his wand pointed straight at Potter's heart with a malicious grin on his features. Draco recognised the hate in his expression, and with it could almost hear the deadly curse about to touch his lips.

"STOP!" he shouted, and Potter and the guard alike looked up at Draco with shock. Draco himself scrambled for his wand and aimed it at the pair of them, addressing the guard, "Don't you _dare_ send another spell at him!"

"But sir -"

"Your job has been done well, but Mr. Potter is clearly unarmed and incapacitated once again, so there is no need for you to point your wand at him any longer!" The guard stared, but withdrew his wand as Draco had asked and returned it to his pocket once again.

"Thank you," Draco sighed. For a moment he'd feared the guard would hurtle another Cruciatus curse at the boy, or worse, the Killing Curse - the idea made him sick. "Now leave us."

The guard charged from the room immediately, leaving Draco and his captive Gryffindor alone.

The second that the large oak doors slid shut behind the dismissed guard, a sigh slid through Draco's lips. Without a word of warning, his eyes found Potter's as he uttered the words, _"Petrificus totalus,"_ and the other man's eyes widened at the feeling of being paralysed. Another spell levitated him to a standing position and Draco kept him there, not allowing gravity to steal him away.

Draco stepped closer, and felt exhilarated to know that Potter couldn't lean away. Those green eyes were just as enchanting as ever, and even wide with panic they held the same glow that made it seem like Draco could stare forever. Maybe it was them that pulled him closer, or maybe it was more to do with the obligation Draco felt to do so due to their engagement. But with nobody else to interrupt them - not even Potter himself could stop him - it seemed like the perfect, opportune moment, too rare to ignore.

Draco stepped closer to Potter's stiffened frame, and raised a hand to run a finger along the stubble on the man's jaw that he'd had a slight feel for earlier on. Potter's eyes were crazed and followed the movement of Draco's hand as far as they could, with an accusing look of panic nestled within them. The fingertips followed Potter's jaw from the bottom of his ear to his chin, then back again, but the smooth action quickly spiralled into a bore - Potter's lips, however, were much more interesting. Without thinking, Draco had settled his lips against Potter's.

He didn't know what he was doing, nor why, but he knew that those lips were warm and soft, despite Potter's night in the dungeons. Later, the Malfoy would tell himself that it meant nothing. That even despite the vivid memory of Potter's lips touching his, the kiss had been obligatory, only a gesture they would be forced to share that evening and beyond, whenever others insisted it. Even when the hair at the back of his neck stood on end and his breath quivered with the warmth of those lips so close, there was still a resistance blocking his path. He was fully aware of his attraction to the man formally known as his enemy, he thought he'd come to terms with it years ago. But a part of him - strangely enough, one that spoke in the voice of his father - simply could not accept it.

But, as brilliant as those lips tasted under his tongue, it in no way felt like a real kiss. A kiss was a two-way street, and currently, Draco was the only one taking part. A frown dug its way into his features as he pulled away, and he came upon the strange realisation that he not only wanted to kiss Potter, but also wished for Potter to kiss him back.

"OK," he whispered, clearing his throat due to unanticipated nerves and retracting his hands from Potter. The man's green eyes seemed wider than they had ever been before, repelling Draco further away with his loathing gaze. Suddenly, Draco considered that what he'd done might have been a bad idea.

"All right, Potter, I'm going to take off the curse," he said. "But if you make a single wrong move, if you jump for the door or for my wand again, then I will ensure that they put you back in those chains."

Draco uttered the counter-curse, although a sinister part of him preferred Potter when he couldn't retaliate. Once Potter was no longer paralysed he stumbled forwards and simultaneously Draco stepped away. The Gryffindor breathed heavily as if he had been holding it in for hours.

"What did you do that for?" he demanded, once he'd caught his breath somewhat, although his voice still quaked and his limbs were stiff and alert for any sign that Draco was going to advance on him once again.

Draco held up his hands like a man caught in the act of some ill deed. "It's all right, Potter, I'm not going to ravish you where you stand. You can loosen up a little." He hadn't expected his words to have much effect, but Potter's shoulders seemed to sink a little. "And for the record I was just... Testing something out."

 _"Testing?"_ Potter said. "I'm not your pet. You can't just cast a curse on me and do whatever you want!"

Draco chuckled. "I think you'll find I can, especially since I carry a wand and you, currently, do not."

Potter shook his head, his brow furrowed, and his hand raised to rub at his temples. Regrettably, Draco took a small step towards him, but the other man shuddered away.

"I apologise, Potter, I didn't think a chaste kiss would be such a problem for you," Draco said, watching Potter's eyebrows raise in surprise - perhaps he hadn't believed that the Malfoy possessed the ability to utter an apology. "But I'm afraid you'll have to get used to it. It's either this or Azkaban, and we both know how much you fear dementors."

"No," Potter corrected him immediately, as his hands fell from his temples and hung heavily at his sides. "Not anymore."

A pause rang between them. Draco couldn't take the lingering tension, but had nothing to say. He reached over to grab Potter's discarded whiskey and downed that too, relieving the stiffness in his shoulders.

"Are we definitely getting married then? No question about it?" Potter finally asked, shattering the silence more suddenly than a rock surging through a glass window.

"None," Draco confirmed. "The wedding is going ahead at 5pm this evening."

Potter's eyes bulged out of their sockets. _"Tonight?"_ he exclaimed.

"Oh, yes, the date was moved forward to today. It seems the Dark Lord couldn't wait another night to see us wed."

Draco watched as the news settled into Potter's mind, showing on his face in the form of a slightly green hue.

"Well, if it's definitely going ahead... Then I propose we make a truce."

"A truce?" Draco questioned with an upturned eyebrow, ignoring the unfortunate use of the word 'propose'.

"Yeah. If I have to be married to you, then I don't want us fighting all the time like we were in school."

"I'm sure this will be very different to being teenagers at Hogwarts," Draco noted. "But yes, I guess that would be a good idea." He held out a hand for Potter to shake, and the boy took it. "You will refrain from being as deathly annoying as you always have been, and I won't hex you unless you deserve it. Agreed?"

Potter frowned, but they shook nonetheless, and Draco smiled his way. "Then I shall see you at the altar, my love."

A/N: Please review and let me know what you think of the story so far. Stay tuned in the next chapter for THE WEDDING!


	3. Chapter 3: Rings

A/N: A little shout-out The Twenty-fifth Doctor and Alijandra's Editor for your reviews! In my view of Harry - at least for this story - he's more masculine, so I won't be portraying him as a bride, but thank you so much for your comments. Knowing people like this makes me want to write even more.

This chapter is a little longer than usual (over 9000 words - AH), but at least it is out on time (yay!) Enjoy!

Chapter 3: Rings

Having been slung into his cell again for the rest of the afternoon, the muscles in Harry's back had stiffened into ice what with being pressed against the wall. His stomach was strung with nerves, although he couldn't pin-point why. The idea of marriage had never been something that prodded even the depths of his imagination, but now it was at the forefront of his mind, along with the person he'd soon be faced with at the altar.

Events began to feel as though they were repeating themselves when another house elf appeared ahead of him in a spark of light. It must have been a few hours he'd been left alone, but already the walls around him, dark and leering, had been stamped on his consciousness like permanent landmarks. The room was transformed into the same white dressing room as before, and the bright white walls stung at Harry's eyes, which had gotten too used to the dim lighting of his cell.

The house elf began dressing him without a word, not bothering to announce themself. The small figure muttered words under their breath that Harry couldn't decipher, and slouched low enough that their shoulders seemed to be sanded down into flat hills. They reminded Harry of the gloomy old elf, Kreature, who resided at 12 Grimmauld Place - for all he knew, the elf was still there now. But thinking of the Blacks' family home only brought back painful memories of Sirius, and in turn all of the people Harry had lost, so he quickly discarded the thought.

Nonetheless, the elf continued with their work. Clothes were pulled over his head, and buttoned in place with a sharp click of the elf's fingers. Robes that felt more like a cape made of silk were draped over his shoulders, and as invisible fingers were conjured to tie his shoelaces, dust was brushed from his shoulders and the clothes were flatted against his chest. On his face, some kind of white powder had been applied across his forehead, narrowly missing his scar but making the lightning bolt jump out of his skin even more. And to top it off, what could only be described as tar now coated his eyelashes - Harry resisted blinking in fear that his eyelids would be glued together by it.

Meanwhile, his hair had been combed to no end, making Harry's scalp turn numb with pain. But, as always, the effort had only seemed to anger the locks, making them stick out even further as if in retaliation. Most of Harry's hair must have been torn out by the time the elf gave up trying, and simply did their best to make him look at least presentable.

By the end, Harry felt like a doll, trapped in the body of a life sized puppet who had been prepared for some kind of pantomime. But despite the discomfort, when he glanced in the mirror he saw a man who looked too regal to be himself. The figure standing on the other side of the glass before him was dressed all in white: a high-collared shirt, tailored trousers, and silky robes embedded with silver stitching and tiny emeralds that glimmered in the light. He was sure that the outfit had been roped together by Malfoy - the distinct Slytherin colours were too distinct for it to have been designed by anyone else. But although Harry wasn't a Slytherin himself, he could admit that the colour suited him. He wondered for a split second if it had been a mistake requesting Gryffindor all those years ago when he'd first met the prophesying Sorting Hat, then shook his head furiously at the idea of picking a house just for the colour of their ties - not to mention, the idea of having become friends with Malfoy made him physically sick.

In a whirlwind of motion Harry was towed back up the staircases and into the Manor itself. The mansion seemed alive with movement, people rushing about the halls in a desperate haste that made even the slightest movement chaotic. The whole place had shifted dramatically since that quiet morning when he'd met with Draco which now seemed like days ago - it now appeared more like a film set than a house. Harry recognised caterers, dressed in tall chef's hats and white aprons with wands levitating trays of food over people's heads. There were musicians in tuxedos with long tails, carrying an array of polished brass instruments. There were even young children stumbling around in suits and puffy dresses, carrying whole bouquets of flowers or tiny gift baskets.

But as Harry combed through the many faces, others peered back at him. People's gazes followed his every movement, stuck to him like magnets. Some stared in amazement and others in panic, as he and his parade of guards surrounding him made their way through the halls. He was glad to have them there after a while, but although their bodies served physical protection - as they quite literally _surrounded_ him in a tight, marching circle - there was nothing they nor Harry could do to stop the stares and whispers. But he was used to it by now. Being the 'Boy Who Lived' had often had its benefits, one of which being it gave him a thick skin when it came to stares and whispers.

Harry was ushered into a cloakroom at the end of the hall and since the guards remained stationed outside, Harry was able to take a deep breath without their presence lingering around him like heavy fog. But he soon realised that a figure lingered in the corner, preoccupied and thus unbeknown to Harry's entry.

The man was just slightly taller than Harry, leaner with slender limbs and bright white hair that made him recognisable as a Malfoy even from miles away. Draco had his back to Harry, eyes fixed on a mirror as he pruned his hair with a thin comb - typical of Malfoy, Harry thought with a roll of his eyes. When the Slytherin's infatuation with his hair flickered, he straightened up and caught Harry's gaze through the mirror. His comb was slid into a hidden pocket amongst his robes, but of course - true to his arrogance as always - Malfoy required just one more lingering glance at his reflection before he turned to face Harry.

"Potter," Malfoy greeted him pleasantly. But just as a smile began to form on his features, he halted as though his mind had caught up with what his eyes were telling him, and he frowned, swiftly advancing on Harry. "Honestly, do you have to look scruffy in _everything?"_ he complained, attacking Harry's wild black locks with his fingers and pestering over the placement of them.

"Don't bother," Harry winced, uncomfortable under Malfoy's touch. "I couldn't make them lay flat if I tried." But the white haired devil wouldn't let go of him, and continued to fuss with his hair. Then suddenly he let go, throwing his hands in the air and groaning in frustration, having finally realised his efforts were a waste of time.

"For once, you're right," he huffed. "It's no use. The papers will just have to edit the photos a little."

"Papers?" Harry queried. "What papers?"

Malfoy only waved his concerns away. "Oh, nothing to worry about." He sighed, his shoulders slumping as though in defeat, and with them an invisible wall seemed to fall from around him. It was only then that Harry realised his startling appearance beneath the haze of nervous energy.

As usual, the Malfoy's hair was immaculate, brushed back and gelled into place. His robes were similar to Harry's with the same stitching design and tiny green gems, but where Harry wore only a plain white shirt and trousers beneath, Malfoy also wore a waist coat woven from a green silk that shone like it was carved from a glistening gem. On anybody else the outfit probably would have appeared too extravagant for an impromptu wedding, but on Draco he emulated eccentricity - a description that fitted the man perfectly. With the waistcoat, his torso looked thin and angular, just like the rest of him, and the green fitted him just as well as it would have on royalty.

Malfoy noticed Harry taking him in, but he made none of the comments Harry would have expected. Even so, Harry oddly suspected that the blonde could read every appreciative glance he sent.

"Are you ready?" Malfoy asked him, his tone significantly sincerer than Harry would have ever expected from him.

"No," Harry admitted. He had no clue how a wedding even worked, let alone what would await him in the _marriage_ that would come afterwards - a marriage to _Malfoy,_ no less. "Are you?"

Malfoy shrugged. "I've been ready to be married to some poor soul all my life, since I was six and was taught what 'family honour' meant." He regarded Harry with a curious glance before adding, "You, however, were not quite what I expected."

"I'm glad I surprised you," Harry joked, but neither of them laughed.

A knock came at the door, and all the peace that might have resided in the room collapsed into panic. "Mr. Malfoy!" a shrill voice called. "It is time! The guests are all ready for you."

Malfoy's frame stiffened, and his gaze darted away from Harry's but he made no effort to respond.

A second later the door swung open from behind, and the tall, blonde figure of Narcissa Malfoy entered the room, eyes honed on her son and fiery with impatience.

"Draco!" she snapped. "Come on now, we don't want to keep everybody waiting." She seemed to notice Harry's presence suddenly, her attention flickering his way, and checked herself. "Hello, Harry dear," she greeted him stiffly.

There had been very few times in Harry's life when he'd considered being polite to a Malfoy, but it was clear as day that Mrs. Malfoy was a very different person to her husband, and something told him that she didn't deserve the same treatment. Thus, he smiled her way as genuinely as he could, and said, "Good evening, Mrs. Malfoy."

Narcissa's smile then turned a little more genuine, if not slightly surprised, but her attention quickly snapped back to her son. "Come on, Draco, you'll be entering first. And I guess you had better come and ready yourself too, Harry."

The two boys followed Narcissa from the room, her heels clicking lightly on the marble floor. The halls were much quieter now than they had been before, stricken with a stillness that seemed colder than death. They reached a large door, and Harry stammered when the two Malfoy's ahead of him came to a strict halt. All there was to fill the air now was the slight shuffle of Malfoy's fingers fidgeting with the edge of his robes. It was strange to think that a man usually so confident in his arrogance could be so nervous.

"I must apologise, Harry," Mrs. Malfoy said, and Harry was caught off guard, his gaze detaching itself from Draco's nervous ticks in an instant. He was surprised to find Narcissa addressing him directly, her expression laced with guilt. "With such short notice I was unable to contact any of your family to walk you down the aisle."

"That's OK," Harry said, deciding not to mention that there really wasn't anyone else left. "I can walk alone. I don't mind."

"Oh, no, Harry you can't walk _alone,"_ Narcissa insisted. "Please, my sister has offered to take the place."

 _Which sister?_ Harry was tempted to ask, hoping upon all of the stars in the sky that she was talking about Andromeda. But he was sure that Narcissa had likely not spoken to her older sister for years, much less since the war. That only left...

 _No, please no..._ Harry pleaded, before he turned to see the crazed smile of Bellatrix Lastrange amongst her wild dark curls, and all of his hopes crumbled into dust and rubble. He couldn't believe it; first he was to marry a Malfoy, and now he was to be given away by the woman who had killed his godfather - her own _cousin!_ Somebody was going to answer for this once he woke up, because surely this had to be a nightmare.

Bellatrix smiled devilishly, and twirled her hair around a finger as she advanced on Harry.

"Harry Potter," she cackled. "Oh how lovely. It's been years, hasn't it. You've grown up!" She pounced towards Harry and laughed even harder when he flinched. Immediately her hands touched his hair, and her fingers danced over his cheeks, grazing his skin with her long fingernails, painted black. She leaned closer to whisper in his ear, "Have you heard about little Granger? I saw her this morning - she's not looking so well."

Swelling with rage, and spurred on by the gut-wrenching image of Bellatrix laughing at Hermione's corpse, Harry shoved her away and she stumbled backwards, crying out as though she'd just been shot. Mrs. Malfoy's cold hand on his shoulder stopped Harry from doing any worse, but if he'd been given the opportunity he would have torn her apart limb by limb.

"Bella, please!" he heard Narcissa scold, surprised to find that it wasn't aimed at him. "This is a special day for these boys and I don't want it ruined. Now, please, _behave._ "

"But it was _him!"_ Bellatrix cried, with a pointed finger stretched out ahead of her. She stalked towards her sister and stared up into her eyes with a pleading gaze. "I was only having a little fun, wasn't I, Potter?"

Harry went to launch himself at her; something about the mocking in her tone made him want to tear her throat out with his bare hands. But the tight, insistent grip of pale fingers digging into his upper arm stopped him, and he whipped back around to find that it was Draco. The blonde shook his head and dragged Harry away, although there was anger in his lips, pressed thinly together. He released Harry's arm before honing an expression full of daggers at his aunt.

"Aunt Bella, please," he said, and that seemed to be all that was needed. Bellatrix bowed her head like a guilty child, but when she looked up her face still held a wide grin.

"Sorry, Draco. Sorry, Cissy. I am _trying_ to be civil." There seemed to be a lot of that - trying, and often failing, to pretend they weren't all enemies - since Harry had arrived here.

"Mr. Malfoy, there really is no time!" Came a voice, and the grand oak doors ahead of them all were eased open. Within fleeting seconds, Narcissa and her son were coaxed through, and moments later, Harry and Bellatrix followed. Harry found he was overly aware of Bellatrix's deep rooted insanity as they walked, her arm hooked around his. But he was almost certain that the crazed Death Eater wouldn't dare try to torture or kill him in her sister's home - or, at least, he hoped so _._ As it happened, she silenced and calmed as soon as she took his arm, almost dazed. It seemed unnatural to witness her in such a state. Still, Harry certainly wasn't complaining.

He was more concerned with what was ahead of him. The hall ahead was large and overbearing, larger even than the Great Hall he remembered from Hogwarts. Bright white walls as tall as entire houses made his eyes ache, decorated with silver fixtures, candles, and streams of ribbon that were draped over everything in sight: chairs, lights and wrapped around great white columns. Every free space was filled with vases of flowers, each filled with white roses which, along with the green of their leaves, fit with the theme of the wedding perfectly.

It was stunning, and yet just as much unsettling for Harry. In amongst the decorations were many rows of seating - and every chair in sight was filled. Hundreds of heads turned at the sound of Harry's entry, and eyes peered at him as though he was some kind of spectacle. He felt like a rare animal at the zoo, just an artefact for people to stare at openly.

Littering most of the seats were the eager expressions of journalists, identifiable by their giant, flashing cameras and the scribble of their quills on pads of parchment. The swamping flash of a camera nearby hit Harry in the face at close quarters and left him blinded by the light. He blinked away the colourful blotches that immediately blurred his vision and they all appeared to have swamped in even closer. He could practically see the headlines already: "The Boy Who Lived - Even More 'Special' Than We Thought", or "Malfoy Gives Up Family Honour to Wed Harry Potter", or even "Harry Potter Finally Found - Now Malfoy's Sex Slave!" - Harry couldn't say he'd put much past the Daily Prophet or any of the million other wizarding papers that had rose in publicity since the war.

But just when Harry didn't think he could feel much worse, his forehead seemed to explode in blinding pain and his feet staggered to a halt. There was a hiss at the back of his skull, echoing louder than even the murmur of voices from around him, and with it came a scorching pain that threatened to split his forehead down the middle. _My scar,_ Harry thought, stricken with worry, and his eyes darted around him. His scar only hurt under the presence of Voldemort, and it hadn't ached like this since the war.

As a sturdy arm hauled him upwards, Harry glanced up to see two solid black orbs staring back at him, embedded in the face of a familiar ghostly figure.

 _Voldemort._

Harry stumbled down the rest of the isle, towed on by a slender arm. He found himself stood facing Malfoy, whose features had taken on a green hue to match his waistcoat, with the even paler Lord Voldemort between them in the place of a minister. Any words or cries that might have come to mind dissolved into bile and stuck to the back of Harry's throat.

"Ladies, gentlemen," the Dark Lord announced. "We are all gathered to see the union of these two young men..."

Harry's eyes were wide and alert, ignoring the pounding in the forefront of his skull. He scanned the vast crowds before him. _Get out your wands!_ He thought in desperation, willing somebody in this mass of people to take action. _Somebody KILL HIM!_ But nobody did; every pair of eyes was fixated on the Dark Lord, glazed over by the fear that coaxed them into paralysis.

Harry's heart pummelled against the inside of his chest, an insistent rhythm that told him this was wrong, despite the tranquil atmosphere around him that suggested of otherwise. His breath was caught in his throat, and with every attempt he made to still either of these ailments, his scar would thrum with pain and throw off his focus.

"And now for the rings," Harry heard, and blinked up in wonder as to what he'd missed. Already, an elf was stepping forward, grasping a silver cushion that was so large he could barely see over it, and topped with two small boxes. Malfoy took one, and after a jolt of realisation Harry promptly grabbed the other.

"Harry," The Dark Lord turned to him first. His dark eyes were leering and narrow, making Harry's scar lurch in pain. "You will place this ring on Draco's finger as a sign of the bond created by your marriage, a bond which cannot be broken. Do you understand?"

His words inclined that Harry had a choice in the matter, but Tom's tone made it quite clear, if it hadn't been made explicit already, that there was no arguing the decision that had already been made for him - he was trapped for life. In the Muggle world, wedding vows were nothing but words, and a marriage could be broken by signing papers. But magical weddings were oaths, forming a bond that tied two people together and could only be broken by death or an incredibly powerful witch or wizard. With a gulp at the thought that this was it - he'd be bound to Draco forever - Harry nodded and opened the box.

Inside was a silver band, embedded in which was a tiny green gem - of course Malfoy's ring would bear the Slytherin colours he so dearly loved. Malfoy raised his hand somewhat hesitantly and Harry took it, trying to ignore how much both his and Draco's fingertips were shaking as he slid the ring onto his finger and dropped the hand as quickly as gravity would snatch it away. The ring suited Malfoy, fitting in with not only his clothes but his slim, almost feminine frame.

"And Draco," Voldemort prompted; Malfoy opened his own box. He took Harry's left hand and slid the ring on without giving it a second glance, whilst Harry was eager to see it. The ring itself bore the same silver band as Malfoy's, but in the place of the emerald sat a similar sized gem, but of a pale blue the shade of the sky on a slightly cloudy day. Harry was immediately surprised, wondering why his ring wasn't red and gold, baring his own house colours just as Malfoy's had. The blue looked to be a familiar shade, as though he'd seen it in a dream one night long ago, but it had no meaning to him. But then he looked up, glancing into Malfoy's eyes with a querying gaze as though he was asking without words, and recognised that the gem on his ring was the same blue-grey colour as Malfoy's irises. Then he realised: Draco's ring bore not just Slytherin colours, but the same green as Harry's eyes.

"Well, there we have it," Voldemort announced grandly. "Congratulations; the bond has been formed. You may now kiss."

 _Kiss?_ Harry wondered - he'd forgotten that was part of a wedding. Malfoy stepped towards him and he instinctively began to lean back. But thin hands had grabbed him by the waist and pulled him close before he could get any further away. Malfoy's chest was pressed to his through the thin shirts and bright waistcoat between them - which he still couldn't believe Malfoy had the audacity to wear. The blonde's fingernails dug into Harry's hips, locking him into a grip that was stifling. He was close enough now that words could be spoken without anybody else hearing.

"You _will_ kiss me, Potter," Malfoy whispered sharply, his arms tying themselves around Harry so that he couldn't pull away if he tried. "And you'll kiss me like you mean it."

By the time there was silence between them, Malfoy had already leaned in. His lips were surprisingly soft and tasted sweeter than anything Harry had heard coming from them. And his arms, as thin and delicate as they may have seemed, held Harry close with such strength that he suspected magic was behind it. Malfoy kissed him, and although Harry made no attempt to kiss back, Malfoy's lips were convincing in coaxing a tiny part of him to want to.

The crowds applauded, as reporters scribbled with their quills, or dictated dramatic accounts of all they were seeing into a recorder, or snapped a photo on their ridiculously large cameras. Everyone seemed to be thrilled with joy.

But in amongst the fanatic crowds sat a woman dressed in cream, her blonde hair tied in an elaborate do that made it seem like she wore a crown. Narcissa Malfoy, unlike anybody around her, wore no smile, but a growing expression of worry that was distinguishable as much as she tried to hide it. And, to make matters worse, her eyes were fixed on Harry, as though her woes were caused by him. Harry caught her gaze as his lips left Draco's, and immediately her expression shifted into a pleasant smile as though he'd imagined it all. But Mrs. Malfoy's glare still lingered in his mind, a burning beacon of warning.

-TRANSITION-

On any other day, Draco would have said he loved parties, but a wedding reception wasn't nearly as lively as the sort he usually liked to attend. Formality, whilst it was endurable every so often, became a bore to any sane twenty-one-year-old after a while, and an hour into the dull gathering even alcohol wasn't helping. A swarm of reporters that made up most of the guest list had attacked Draco with questions at the beginning of the evening, but now the only attention he received were from nervous gazes across the room. As he circled the crowd like a hawk, a half-empty glass of champagne in hand, his eyes caught on the many dark heads that swarmed the hall: all his mother's relatives, yet many of whom he had never met. But an absence of blonde heads - Draco was, of course, the only Malfoy left due to his father's death - made the space seem sparse, a room full of strangers in which Draco was isolated.

Not for much longer, however, as through the ocean of people he noticed a familiarly giddy smile from a girl dressed in blue, her arm linked with that of a taller man. Without a second thought, Draco made his way towards them, easily slipping through the crowds as they parted. It was only when the smiles turned to face him that he realised how glad he was to see friends.

"Draco!" Pansy's arm detached from her partner's and was thrown around Draco's shoulders, hugging him as though they hadn't seen each other in years. It _had_ been a while, and the last party they had attended together had been two years ago at Pansy's own wedding. But as always the young woman took any opportunity to pour over Draco like she had throughout school, even with her husband standing by.

Not that Blaise minded, of course. He shook Draco's hand firmly as they greeted each other, and his mouth curved into a faint smile. "Congratulations," he said stiffly, and Draco was reminiscent of the day they had met in a first year transfiguration class, where they'd both complained about the inadequacies of the school teaching staff and sniggered at the misery of other students. Blaise had worn the same almost-smile then, dulled down by his perpetual frown. It wasn't that Blaise was always angry, but he was focussed, perceptive, always spying for something interesting to note. He had always been clever, with cunning brown eyes that were constantly alert, but he also had a lean and muscular frame, one which had served him well in the school Quidditch fields and had since adapted more to combat. It was no wonder that, after the war had died down, Blaise had been appointed Head of the new Auror program at the Ministry, which was now focussed more around policing the people. Blaise may not have been a Death Eater, but he was good at his job.

"Oh, yes - Congratulations!" Pansy was excitable as always, with a grin across her petite features that made up for Blaise's lack of visible joy. But despite her happiness, she did well to hold her left sleeve down whilst the other slid carelessly up her forearm. Draco knew what was beneath: the mark of black ink that was similarly gouged into his own arm, a disfigured, gnarled scar that each of them did their best to cover. It seemed strange that years ago they'd both been desperate to get it carved into their skin. It felt like only yesterday they were all back at Hogwarts, when Draco and Pansy had been promised to marry. The arrangements had fallen away after Lucius' death, and instead Blaise had married Pansy instead. The two were anything but in love, but they were friends enough to put up with each other.

Pansy, as always, had begun chatting away the moment any silence allowed her to. Draco sipped from his glass and allowed her to yack on as she pleased, whilst he revelled in the bubbles of champagne on his tongue, quickly soaring to his head and making him a little less frustrated at the bouquet of flowers he'd spotted, carelessly left on a table in the corner of the room. Draco watched Blaise gulp down a mouthful from his own glass, as he attempted to look at all interested in his wife's one-sided discussion of the five new dresses she had bought just the other day. The two men shared a glance, and Draco almost laughed at the pleading in his friend's eyes.

"Pansy?" Draco interrupted her mid-sentence, and noticed Blaise sigh in relief. "I may be a fan of discussing your wardrobe, but can we talk about something else? I can see the femininity eating away at your husband's manhood."

"Don't you worry about his manhood," Pansy laughed. "I doubt it will be missed!" She'd always had a crude humour despite her angelic act in front of the media and her father, and it was something Draco loved about her. Blaise only laughed along. "Should we talk about _your_ husband then, Draco?"

Draco rolled his eyes; having a husband - let alone a _Potter -_ wasn't something he'd quite gotten used to just yet.

"Doesn't he look a little lonely over in that corner all on his own?" Pansy wondered. Draco followed her gaze to see Potter sat on the other side of the ballroom with a glass in his hand and a solemn, lonely look on his face. "Maybe we should invite him over to talk with us."

"No, I doubt that would cheer Potter up," Draco rejected, shaking his head. "He'd probably only dampen the mood; don't you think Blaise?"

"Actually, I agree with Pansy."

Draco turned on Blaise with surprise, a little sour to the fact that his best friend hadn't taken his side.

"Blaise, you've gone soft," he accused lightly.

"No really, Draco," Blaise said. "It's his wedding too, you know, and he deserves to enjoy it. I doubt being surrounded by people who have been his enemies up until now can be comforting for him - maybe all he needs is a friendly face. Besides," the man smiled. "Pans and I haven't been introduced to him yet, and you owe us that much."

Draco huffed. "Fine," he agreed, somewhat unwillingly. "But if he ruins your evening, I shall not be blamed."

He detached from his friends and edged over towards Potter, who was stood alone in the corner of the room, ever looking as solemn as death itself. The man's dark head was bowed, watching his fingers fiddle with the material of his shirt rather than glance up at the festivities around him. A variety of robes had been prepared for the both of them, but whilst Draco had willingly changed into something more appropriate for a party, Potter must have refused, as he stood there now in the same chalk white shirt and trousers he'd worn for the service, having discarded his silk robe. If he hadn't have possessed such a striking black mess of hair atop his head, the man would have faded into the walls of the ballroom - but then again perhaps that was his intention.

"Having a nice time, Potter?" Draco greeted half-heartedly, before silently cursing his friends when Potter glanced up and scowled at him. Why they wanted to spend the evening with the Gryffindor was beyond him, but perhaps they'd quickly realise their mistake.

"Leave me alone," Potter said, with a voice that sounded frail and reserved. Draco glanced around, and quickly noted the many faces turned to watch them, eager to see how the newly wedded couple would act after being distant for so much of the party.

"I can't leave you," Draco said, watching Potter roll his eyes at the words. "Or people will think there's something wrong."

"I don't care," Potter huffed, and Draco frowned back at him. Why did he need to be so stubborn? Didn't he understand how important publicity was to him, and to the Dark Lord? Draco took another glance at the staring figures around them, and realised that they were beginning to stir whispers. He needed to act quickly before vicious rumours began to spread.

"Come on," he sighed, taking Potter's hand instinctively. Thankfully he didn't pull away, allowing their fingers to be intertwined, but Potter did send a questioning glance.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Your sadness is distracting from all of the beautiful decorations and I won't have it. Not to mention..." Draco muttered, and glanced back at Blaise and Pansy across the hall with a sigh. "My friends want to meet you."

"Your _friends?"_ Potter exclaimed, following Draco's gaze to see the two Slytherins, both smiling his way in a manner that was slightly eerie. "Why do they want to meet _me?"_

"Merlin knows, but please humour them. Oh, and don't worry if Blaise scowls at you. He does that to everyone."

The two made their way back through the crowds, each ignoring the surrounding cacophony of whispers and stares, and trying to forget that their hands were still latched together. Despite Draco's warning, Blaise in fact didn't scowl, but beamed at Potter as he introduced himself, in a way that was strange for his usually scornful features. It was Pansy that he should have warned Potter of, Draco soon realised, as whilst she smiled and spoke pleasantly, she also felt the need to hug him tightly, tearing his hand from Draco's.

"It's so lovely to see you!" For such a loud character, Pansy was incredibly small, and whilst Potter would never be the tallest man in a room, their height difference still made it so that Pansy could only just about rest her chin on his shoulder as they hugged. "It's been so long!"

"Pans!" Blaise warned in a hiss, and Pansy detached herself from Potter immediately.

"Oh, personal space - yes, I'm sorry!" she blurted. Pansy had cleared downed a glass or two too much punch - her face was alight with excitement, and her beaming smile was sure to tear her face in half it was so wide. "I'm so happy for you and Draco! I know we weren't exactly friends in school, but I'm hoping we can put that behind us, Harry - can I call you Harry?"

"Er... Sure?" Potter agreed hesitantly, watching in surprise - and a little fear - as Pansy grinned even wider. Draco doubted the other man would be so happy to put the past behind him if he had known the sort of things young Pansy had said about Potter and his friends throughout school - and her words had often been crueller than many of Draco's.

"Sorry about her," Blaise intercepted. "She's a bit too excited, I think. Nice to see you, Potter."

"And you, Zabini," Potter said, shaking the hand Blaise offered him with the hint of a smile. Blaise had always been the nicest of the three of them, despite his default frown, and from what Draco could tell he'd never really had much against Potter or any of the Gryffindors - other than when they beat Slytherin at Quidditch, that was. Now, he was happy to greet Potter with a genuine smile, as Potter looked back at him in a way that was more than just kind relief - Draco could have sworn on Salazar Slytherin that Potter was checking Blaise out. His eyes narrowed at the thought.

"Well then, you got what you wanted," Draco addressed his friends. "Potter can go back to his sullen corner now, if he wishes."

"No, of course not!" Pansy protested and took Potter's arm as thought they'd become best friends instantly. "I want to hear all about your honeymoon plans, first!"

"Honeymoon?!" Potter said. Immediately, Draco was grilled with a questioning expression from the other man, but he only shook his head.

"No, Pansy, there won't be a _honeymoon_. All of this is quite enough celebration, I should think."

"But you _have_ to have a honeymoon," Pansy said, her face bearing a stubborn frown. "It's to lay the foundations of the marriage ahead."

 _No, it's for people who actually want to spend time together to go on holiday_ , Draco thought, but quickly decided not to say. "You didn't have a honeymoon," he argued instead.

"Yes we did - we went to Sicily to stay with Blaise's mother. It was a lovely visit."

"That hardly counts," Draco huffed, but meanwhile Potter was staring at them with wonder on his features.

"You're... married?" he asked, although his gaze was fixed more on Blaise than Pansy.

"Yes," Draco answered for them, angered somehow by the way Potter's eyes lingered on Blaise's. "And may I remind you: as of this evening, so are you. Now if you'll excuse me..."

Draco turned away to leave, finding his glass empty when he brought it to his lips and thus forcing himself in the direction of the refreshments table. But before he could take more than a single step, a large hand grasped his shoulder and stopped him from moving any further away.

"Draco." He was greeted by the deep, sullen voice and knew immediately from memory who it was speaking to him before he turned and found his assumption correct. Sullivan Nott was an elderly man, closely approaching eighty even though his son, Theodore, was a mere twenty-two, having been in the same school year as Draco himself. Nott had been a widower since Theo had a been a small child, but all the while he'd been a loyal Death Eater, and thus somebody Draco was obliged to be polite and courteous towards.

"Mr. Nott," Draco said, a little flustered by the old man's sudden appearance. "I'm so glad to see you here - thank you for coming."

"It is my pleasure," the old Death Eater muttered back, but his words didn't ring true in his dark, forever scowling eyes.

"I haven't seen Theodore, did he come with you?" Draco enquired, although in all truth he gave little care as to the whereabouts of his school friend. Theo had always been a little abrasive for Draco's liking, too much like a Gryffindor for the Slytherin cunning he'd learnt from his father to shine through.

"No, unfortunately not. My son has been on a business trip for the past few days and wasn't able to return on such short notice."

Secretly Draco was relieved; at least he wouldn't have to endure the rough pat on the back and drunken antics that Theo always brought to a party.

"Oh, what a shame," Draco lied. "Please, let him know I wish him well next time you see him."

Nott nodded, as his eyes trailed to a dark haired boy stood somewhere behind Draco. The man's eyes darkened and narrowed with devilish cunning, the type one learnt from being the right hand man of Lord Voldemort for over sixty years.

"Congratulations on your marriage," Nott said with as genuine of a smile as his thin, wrinkled lips could muster. "Tell me: Shouldn't you be having the first dance with your new groom?"

Draco's attention darted immediately towards the dance floor in the centre of the room, which was already attracting a few couples who swayed to the slow music. How stupid he had been to forget, ignorantly thinking that once the service was over he and Potter would be free to enjoy the party as they wished, ensuring only that they didn't completely ignore each other. But keeping up appearances, he realised, was more than just showing a few moments of affection every once in a while - it meant doing what people expected. And the expectation on Mr. Nott's brow was heavy, making his eyebrows dip into suspicion.

"Oh, yes, of course," Draco mused casually, although his rapid thoughts and pounding heart were hardly as calm.

He stepped away from a now grinning Mr. Nott without another word and darted back to where Blaise, Pansy and Potter were all still standing. Potter was humouring their chatter as best as he could, although the stiffness in his shoulders made it clear of his discomfort.

"Potter," Draco said, grabbing the man's attention as well as his arm, trying not to seem too frazzled. Potter shook off his hand as he turned, an immediate reaction that came with a questioning look. "We haven't had a chance to dance," Draco proposed. He was well aware of the looming presence of Nott just a few feet behind him, and hoped that Potter didn't put up too much of a fight.

"I don't -" Potter began, but Blaise must have seen the insistent look in Draco's eyes, or perhaps just wanted to have his own fun, as he interjected before Potter could outright refuse.

"I'll clear the dance floor for you," Blaise offered with an amused smile, and darted off into the crowd before anyone could stop him. Within seconds the music had altered to an even slower, melodic track than the one previous, and all eyes were on the couple. The crowd parted to let them through, and Draco smiled; now there was no way Potter could say no without creating a scene.

Draco led a dazed Harry Potter out onto the dance floor that had cleared completely for their entrance, and Draco grabbed his partner by the waist and pulled him close the same way he had at the altar. He had to admit, he liked the feeling of Potter being tied to him, their crouches pressed together in a way that, whilst it may have made Potter squirm, made Draco want to purr - but that would come later. For now, he enjoyed the feeling of his arms rested against Potter's sides, smiling dimly at the way Potter's muscles tensed up at his touch.

He looked up at Potter, whose expression looked anxious and whose arms seemed to have no idea where they were meant to lay. "Never danced with anyone before?" Draco wondered, and by the silence and the pinkish colour in Potter's cheeks he guessed his assumption was correct.

"Here," he offered dully, detaching himself a little unwillingly to take Potter's half-flailing arms and place them in the same position around Draco's waist. The Slytherin placed his own arms on Potter's shoulders, and although his preference was usually leading, he found that having arms encircling his own waist was just as comfortable.

"Now sway," he told Potter, who did as he was asked, albeit somewhat stiffly, but it would do. Potter was still clearly on edge. His eyes darted about the room, searching the crowds as though staring back at them all would deter their insistent gazes. Draco sighed and took Potter's chin between his finger and thumb, drawing his gaze back to him.

"Don't worry about them," Draco told him, making Potter's thoughts trip at the tiny hint of concern in his tone. "If you hadn't realised, I'm right in front of you - and what else would you rather look at?"

"You arrogant prat," Potter murmured, with a shake of his head, and Draco laughed lightly in amusement at the Gryffindor's half-hearted attempt at an insult. "You're having fun with this aren't you?" Potter's tone was accusatory, as though he wasn't allowed to enjoy his own wedding party, but the words only made Draco laugh harder.

"Yes, I am," he smirked, "because I'm expected to. You see, Potter," he gave a glance to the crowds surrounding them, all with eager eyes and even keener notebooks, and Potter's eyes followed hesitantly. "All of the journalists here, all the guests - everyone in this room, apart from a select few - believe that we are in love. And I intend to keep it that way."

Draco leaned closer, with no concern for how uncomfortable his touch made Potter, and let his breath wash over the other man's earlobe as he uttered, "It's called acting, Potter. I suggest you learn to play your part or this won't end well for either of us."

He leaned away, and saw that Potter looked stricken, wordless. He stared at Draco, an accusatory stare that was heavy with blame. But Draco held his gaze sternly, until he was sure Potter had gotten the message and he moved onto a softer topic.

"Do you like the rings?"

Draco had noticed the ring still rested around Potter's finger before, but hadn't wanted to say anything in front of Pansy and Blaise. Draco himself still wore his own ring, but mostly since taking it off would only rouse suspicion - and of course, he _liked_ the ring - not due to any sentimental value. Potter, however, didn't think about what the papers would derive from a bare ring finger, and even if he was concerned he wouldn't have imagined such an insignificant detail could mean so much. Yet he was still wearing it, and judging by the look he'd given Draco when he'd first put it on, he knew what they symbolised.

"Erm, yeah," Potter murmured, and Draco could feel him fiddling with the ring from behind his back. "Who came up with the design?"

"I did," Draco bragged proudly, smirking back at the blank look on Potter's face.

"Why?"

Draco turned his head to the side and regarded Potter with a curious gaze, wondering what the man was expecting. Not the truth, he deducted, but Draco had always loved to surprise people. "I like your eyes," he admitted truthfully, although in all fairness he didn't mention the rest of the reason: That he wanted to be tied to Potter in a more discreet way, not as elaborate and public as marriage but in the form of something nobody else needed to know about. "It's about the only thing I like about you," he jested lightly, but Potter didn't take to the joke so easily.

"You have to ruin everything, don't you?"

The words hit Draco like a curse straight to the chest, coupled with two hands that pushed away from his hips in an effort to escape his hold. Draco didn't untie his arms from Potter's neck, but the Gryffindor hardly cared, and swiped them away with a blow that was sure to bruise the delicate skin of Draco's forearms. The blonde's arms fell, and the back of Potter's head, infested as always with a nest of black locks, was ahead of him. It was apparent that Potter was walking away, and a twinge of guilt battered on the inside of Draco's ribcage. Well now, he couldn't have that. Malfoys did not feel guilt, and he would not feel indebted to Potter. Maybe it was wrong of him to grab the other man's arm and tow him back around, before tugging Potter's lips to his by a hand at the back of his neck. But Malfoys were never wrong; they were always right, and dear Merlin, Potter's lips felt so heavenly that Draco couldn't regret his actions.

Initially, at the shock of lips pressed against his, Potter's shoulders stiffened into rocks. He was unmoving, his breath stifled, and for a doubtful second Draco wondered whether he'd made a huge mistake. He was about to pull away, feeling again just as he had earlier that day: That there was no point if Potter wasn't kissing him back. But then an arm curled around Draco's waist, like a vine that tied him to a strong chest and refused to let him step away. And for a moment it didn't matter that the whole of the wizarding world was watching them. Nor would it have mattered if the world came crashing down in flames, because somehow - in the most unexpected of moments - Potter was finally kissing him back.

Draco's fingers reached to stroke the tiny hairs at the back of Potter's neck, his thumb grazing across his hairline as Potter brought him even nearer with a tightening of the arms around his waist. Their chests were pressed together, and as were their mouths and thighs and everything in between. If Draco had listened, he would have just about been able to feel the faint thudding of Potter's heart against his own chest, but instead his focus was fixated on the man's lips moving against his. _This_ was a real kiss, a kiss from Harry Potter's lips and one which Draco wouldn't have traded for the world.

"Let's get out of here," Draco uttered. His lips left Potter's for mere seconds, but still the other man's lips were searching for his again almost immediately. Potter managed to steal another chaste kiss, but Draco pulled away with a light chuckle at his desperation before he could deepen it. Draco uncurled the Gryffindor's arms from around him, and headed for the door with Potter in close tow.

-TRANSITION-

Their lips caught together like magnets as soon as Potter entered the room, the door swinging shut behind him. Draco's tongue slipped in between Potter's lips before he could even think to object, as the Gryffindor's back was shoved against a wall. Draco's hands were roaming, passing over flesh and bone and muscle that felt like landmarks on a map: just ridges and bumps from afar but breath-taking from up close. His chest pressed into Potter's, trapping him against the wall behind, as his hands bunched up in fistfuls of Potter's shirt, not allowing him even an inch of room to wiggle away. It occurred to him rather quickly that the shirt was a nuisance. He fought to remove it from Potter, who obliged without much of a struggle, and the fabric was flung onto the ground.

Draco was surprised to find that there was hair on Potter's chest - a small amount, but considerably more than he'd been expecting. Maybe he was just fixated on the small, clearly underdeveloped teenage boy he'd lusted over throughout his own teen years, but the discovery was hardly a deterrent. Neither, he realised, was the trail of dark hair running from Potter's navel into the waist of his trousers, under which it disappeared. Eager to uncover more of Potter's skin, Draco reached to slide a hand into Potter's trousers and follow the trail - until a firm hand caught his wrist and stopped him.

"What are you doing?" Potter demanded, his breaths staggered and short, half due to shock and half due to the rush of passion.

"It's our wedding night," Draco purred back, only slightly frustrated with the tension in Potter's shoulders. "What do you think I'm doing?"

But Potter's hand didn't shift, his grip tight and relentless around Draco's wrist. The pressure was starting to ache, but Draco, resilient as always, made no move to pull away.

"We made an agreement, Malfoy, and I don't recall _this_ being any part of it!" Potter hissed. He threw Draco's wrist down, and with it the blonde's blood began to boil with simmering rage.

"You didn't seem to mind that a moment ago," he retorted.

"I was drunk!" Potter barked back. "Excuse me if being surrounded by _your_ family induced me to drink more than I should have."

Draco scoffed at his lame excuses, and wondered what exactly had compelled him to be attracted to this obnoxious git in the first place. "So you've all of a sudden sobered up, have you?"

"Yeah, maybe I have."

Draco wanted to laugh and scream in the same moment. Potter was _impossible!_ One moment he'd been intent on ravishing Draco where he stood in the middle of a crowd of reporters, and the minute they were alone he'd decided to cower out, spouting a million excuses in the process - and he had the audacity to say that _Draco_ was the one who ruined everything. The Slytherin was outraged, and was ready to storm out of the room and send the guards to do whatever they wanted to Potter. But he wasn't about to let him get what he wanted. Draco had grabbed his wand from his back pocket, and held Potter at arm's length from it, with an ice cold glare sent his way.

"Yet again, I am the one with the wand," Draco taunted, "which means _you_ don't get to opt out when you see fit. Now you have two options, Potter: Either strip, or get on your knees."

Potter's features warped into hate and disgust as he held Draco's threatening gaze no care for the wand pointed right at his throat. He was silent for a long pause - even his gaze was unmoving, burning into Draco's own.

"Make a decision," Draco pressed, trying not to be perturbed by Potter's deadly gaze. "I don't have all night."

When Potter finally moved, he sunk to ground at Draco's feet, and grudgingly pulled down the zip of Draco's trousers. His gaze, red hot and burning with anger, returned to Draco's as he tugged down the trousers and underwear beneath, but Draco swiftly looked away. He laid his forehead on the wall behind Potter and let him get on with it, plagued with a little disappointment; this had hardly been how he'd hoped to spend the evening. It didn't feel remotely enjoyable. It felt like more of a chore, a punishment he needed to deploy whilst simultaneously releasing some of the tension swollen inside of him.

By the time they were done, Draco was panting, and Potter's hands were shaky against his thighs. He found his fingers knotted in the hair at the back of Potter's head, and stifled a deep groan as best as he could. Seconds later he released, and watched as Potter almost choked on the liquid delivered to the back of his throat. Draco's head tipped back and a breath flooded his airways. He pushed off from the wall, wiping the remaining sweat from his brow and staggering towards the bed on the other side of his room. Draco collapsed onto the silky sheets and closed his eyes to the sweet sound of Potter's gasps filling the room as the man was left to finish himself off however he pleased. Potter might not have wanted to fuck him, but here he was, wanking relentlessly on his bedroom floor.

Soon, Potter's gasps had died down into shallow breathing. Draco kicked off his pants and shoes, tore away the shirt from his shoulders and crawled under the covers of his bed, intending to forget about Potter's existence entirely by falling into the depths of sleep and leaving him here in the real world. It would have been easy enough; within seconds Draco was already beginning to tumble down a rabbit hole of dreams and leave his troubles for the night, but of course a voice had to bother his peace.

"Where am I meant to sleep?"

Draco sighed. How anyone in the wizarding world had believed that this blithering idiot was ever going to be the Chosen One he'd never know. "We're married," he reminded Potter yet again. "And married couples are expected to share a bed." He opened an eye and sat up a little to see Potter still knelt on the floor. His trousers, still undone at his crotch, did nothing to cover him, and his chest heaved with denser breaths even than Draco's. "You're welcome to sleep on the floor," Draco offered. He turned off the lights with a flick of his wand before he could be haunted by Potter's scowl.

Sometime after that, once the whole Manor had gone quiet and it was to be assumed that Draco had fallen asleep, he felt the distinct weight of a human being - and a rather good looking one at that - sliding under the sheets beside him.


	4. Chapter 4: The Public Eye

A/N: So I missed two weeks… Oops? School has pretty much taken up all of my time the last few weeks, so the writing schedule I set up has kind of gone out of the window by now. I really hope I haven't lost any of you readers during the break! I will try to keep a more consistent upload schedule from now on. Enjoy this chapter and please review to let me know your thoughts!

Chapter 4: The Public Eye

The next morning, Draco attended breakfast as always. The moment he woke, he eased himself out of bed and creeped out of the room, as quiet as a wraith as to avoid disturbing the lump of dark haired Gryffindor lightly snoring on the other side of his bed. The halls seemed to fly past him, clothes swept onto his shoulders without him realising. In a state of sub-consciousness, time slipped from beneath Draco, and before he knew where the morning had gone he was sat before a plate of bacon and eggs, trying to forget that today was altered by a mile from any other before it.

He was married... To Harry Potter.

For a little while, it was easy to pretend that wasn't the case. After all, he ate breakfast every morning, enduring light chatter from his mother as he swatted house elves like flies. The only real difference was the portrait of his father, which had been replaced overnight. But rather than being a disturbance, it allowed him to forget the argument during which the last one had been removed.

This new portrait of Lucius was smaller than the old one, but the white haired man still sat in the same position with his usual stern frown, his silver locks draped over his shoulders and his cane staked onto the ground at his side. He looked like a ruler, a king seated on his throne at the head of the Malfoy household - a lie, in other words. This painting was a little quieter than its predecessor - but that was hardly a bad thing.

But distracting himself from reality, Draco soon found, became ten times more difficult when the exact reality he'd been avoiding came and sat at the other side of the dinner table. The dining room doors breezed open just as Draco was digging into his third rasher of bacon, idly laughing at some delinquent story his mother had told him, one that he would soon forget. The attention of both blonde heads at the table flickered towards the doors in anticipation, one face filled with polite excitement and the other clouded by annoyance. The dark haired boy Draco had been evading from his thoughts traipsed in, and a thick tension swamped the space between them.

"Harry," Narcissa greeted him with a broad smile. Draco had seen a million false smiles coat his mother's mouth, and he could tell that this one was just as forced as any other. "How lovely to see you."

Potter looked up, and his eyes caught Draco's all too quickly, making the Slytherin's jaw clench and his thoughts turn to jelly. Potter was dressed in Muggle clothes again, wearing a pair of dark blue jeans, and a t-shirt that was slightly too big for him. The Malfoy's subsequent frown was a perfect match to the the shielded distaste on his mother's features that he spied from the corner of his vision. He'd ensured that there would be sufficient robes for Potter to wear, and the house elf that attended to his room knew that. Draco's eyes narrowed; punishments were in order.

"Sorry I'm late," Potter murmured. "I slept in."

"Oh, that's no worry," Narcissa beamed. "Here, come and sit down; we'll get you some breakfast. How did you sleep?"

"Great, thanks," Potter replied, taking a seat beside Draco's mother before he was stolen from conversation by a swarm of house elves that surrounded him. They all beamed and grinned at The Boy Who Lived; he was one of the few idiots left in the world who gave a damn about house elves' wellbeing. Draco didn't doubt that Potter still supported that stupid, poorly named elf charity Granger had come up with in school. What had it been called - Spit? Hurl? Something like that. But it was indisputable that every elf here had heard of Potter's love for their kind. Even in the world of elves, word had spread wide and loudly about the great Harry Potter.

"I ought to mention," Narcissa begun as the elves scattered from Potter's presence, while Draco scowled into thin air. "There is an interview for you both scheduled for this morning - she should be arriving in an hour or so. After that we have lunch with the Goyles."

While outwardly his expression remained impartial, Draco's inner voice groaned with anguish; dinner with the Goyles was never a pleasant affair.

"What about the rest of the day?" Draco kept his eyes fixed on his plate and he pecked his fork at the few scraps of omelette as Potter's question drifted past his ears.

"The rest of the afternoon is free, as far as I am aware. There is nothing planned."

Potter's gaze shot towards Draco and seized his attention with the force of a tight fist. The blonde resisted a smile at the sight of the glistening green in Potter's irises, but couldn't help but laugh when he realised the thought painted across the man's features like a sign advertising his idiocy.

"Don't look so worried, Potter," he said, having to look away and stifle a laugh at the fear that had been ingrained in his furrowed eyebrows. "You won't be kept in a cell again. That was only a temporary measure."

"No of course not," Narcissa assured. "You will have free reign of the Manor, Harry, just like any other guest."

 _He's hardly any other guest, Mother,_ Draco's thoughts argued, but in reality he only grimaced and avoided Potter's gaze even further.

"Well," he addressed. "If there is an interview I need to attend, then I shall be heading off to prepare. Good day, Mother. And... Potter?" The Gryffindor's eyes shot up in pleasant surprise and carried apprehensive wonder. "Please change into some robes before the interview."

-TRANSITION-

Over the past few days, Malfoy's behaviour hadn't reminded Harry of his school self even once. He seemed like a new man - although, granted, he had grown even more sly and vindictive, reflecting every bad trait his father had passed on to him. But now, as Harry watched the blonde stroll into the foyer with a spring in his step, he was hurtled back to Hogwarts, recognising an arrogant teen in search of any way to steal the limelight. Harry had always thought that Malfoy's hatred for him had been imparted from Lucius, but he finally realised the true reason for it: Malfoy was desperately jealous.

His steps were taunt and quick as he advanced on Harry, his back straight and his chin raised high, whilst his face emulated a sense of stern discomfort. Lapping at his heels like waves were robes coloured a soft shade of blue, one that Harry would never have imagined the other man even owning, yet alone wearing in front of the press. The Malfoy's hair was pristine and immaculate as always, just as rehearsed and rigid as his frown. But beneath the scripted expression designed to scare Harry into submission, the dark haired man could see the glimmering in Malfoy's eyes at the idea that his face would soon be on the front page of a newspaper.

"Potter," Malfoy addressed in a mutter with a curt not of his head, and his steps halted abruptly as he came to stand beside Harry. As if a reflex action, Harry's hand was grabbed by a colder one, and their fingers laced together like pistons clicking into place: cold and mechanical. Beneath Harry's fingertips he found a ring of metal, warmed by wear, encircling Malfoy's ring finger, and his breath jolted in irrational surprise. He fiddled idly with his own, still hugging the same finger on his left hand.

"Whatever you do, Potter," Malfoy warned, "just act as though we are a real couple. However, you may need to refrain yourself. You are sober, aren't you? We wouldn't want a repeat of last night."

Harry frowned, but then again he could have guessed that Malfoy would hold a grudge. As usual, the blonde's eyes were cold and narrow, the blue in them turning to ice as he sent a flawless glare in Harry's direction. His grip on Harry's hand was tightening, jutting his bones into awkward angles and leaving his skin chilled from the contact. Harry's bones ached, but he didn't dare pull away; he wasn't about to give Malfoy the satisfaction of knowing that the grip had caused him any harm.

Up ahead, the grand front doors of Malfoy Manor were easing open, gradually widening the rectangle of light that blinded Harry as it streamed through the growing gap. It was large morning by now, but even as the sun crawled into afternoon light, it was still just about low enough to duck through the doorway and dazzle the marble floor with its gaze.

A short, thin figure stood on the other side of the door: a woman dressed in a purple business suit with a clipboard in hand. Her hair was dark, and clipped back off her face. and although she was of average height, she slouched forward a little as though the huge, intimidating Manor before her physically weighed down on her shoulders. Harry recognised her immediately, remembering the awkward smile and kind warmth. His jaw hit the floor in shock.

Malfoy stepped forward, not at all phased by her appearance, and the tight grip of his hand towed Harry forward with him. "Miss Chang," he greeted her, stepping forward to take Cho's hand in his and kiss her knuckles politely, whilst still keeping hold of Harry's hand in his other. "It's lovely to see you. I suppose you must be in Pansy's good books if she sent you here?"

"I suppose so," Cho replied shyly, her shoulders folding in on themselves as she spoke to make her look smaller than ever. "Ms. Parkinson wanted to come herself, but she had a conference today, so she sent me."

"Of course," Malfoy said gently. "I assume you remember Harry?"

Cho nodded, and her eyes fluttered up to meet Harry's for the first time since she'd arrived. "Hello, Harry." Her eyes flew from his as soon as she'd spoken, finding comfort at the sight of her feet on the marbled floor.

"Er, hi," Harry choked. He quickly found that his tongue had rung dry at the back of his throat, leaving his voice hoarse and strained.

Malfoy sent a forced smile at the both of them. "Good. Come, Miss Chang, I've arranged for us to be seated in the lounge for the interview."

Malfoy led them down a nearby corridor, his hand still grasped in Harry's as Cho followed closely behind the pair. The woman's presence was drowned in uncomfortable silence that consumed the stuffy air. Harry had so many questions for her, but he bit his tongue. The consistent grip of Malfoy's hand around his deterred him from even glimpsing back at Cho, who walked with short, anxious steps that snapped against the hard floor. Her head remained down, eyes to the floor ahead, as her arms tied the clipboard to her chest. Harry had never once imagined that she would end up being a journalist, but here she was, working for none other than the Daily Prophet.

Malfoy walked right beside him, a little too close for comfort, and such that Harry could mutter to him, confident that Cho couldn't hear what was said. "I thought Pansy was married," he whispered. Malfoy only chuckled back.

"So she ought to be called 'Mrs. Zabini', you mean?" he said, and Harry nodded back. "Officially, yes, that is her title. But Pansy didn't want to be likened to Blaise's mother - a lovely woman, but with a terrible reputation for heart break. Imagine the rumours if Pansy was to idolise herself as the next generation to carry on the legacy? I don't doubt that the papers would hire someone to have Blaise killed just so that their readers would believe the story."

Malfoy's voice was low, but vindictive, carrying a kind of genuine hatred a Harry would never imagine he could hold towards the press - who, after all, made the fame and attention he received possible.

The conversation was dropped as Malfoy ducked down a narrow corridor to his left, Harry in close tow, whilst Cho followed a little more hesitantly. For a moment they were faced with a quaint oak door, before Malfoy eased it open, wincing at the creek its hinges let out. Beyond was a lounge much like any other. Its walls were coated in dark wallpaper, whilst the floor was a soft, springy carpet in which Harry's shoes sunk as though he was stood on a cloud. Curtains streamed down from above the windows, blocking out half the light and leaving only thin streams of warm sunlight to illuminate the space. In the centre of the room, rested on a rug the colour of twilight sky, sat a deep blue three-seater sofa and an arm chair, accompanied by a coffee table that was littered with enough refreshments to last days on end. Malfoy darted towards them immediately.

"Please, help yourself to tea, coffee, biscuits," he offered, idly waving a hand above the selection, before seating himself on one side of the sofa and dragging Harry down with him. Malfoy's hand dashed from his as soon as they were both sat and didn't return, but Harry didn't fail to notice how close they were sat to each other, and something made him refrain from moving away. Cho was left only with the convenient armchair directly opposite them, coloured the same lavish shade of navy blue. She sunk into it with awkward reservation, trying to balance the clipboard she held on her knee.

"Well, erm, Mr. Malfoy and... Harry, I have a few questions for both of you," Cho began. Her voice was quaking in her throat, and Harry was sure that Malfoy's beaming smile was by no means helping.

"Ask away," he offered. Cho's gaze caught on Harry's and she gulped, her knotted brow and tense grip on her clipboards telling that she was perplexed by him. By the time Harry noticed the confusion in her fleeting gaze she had glanced back down at her notes for guidance.

"Well, to start with, how was the wedding?"

"Oh, it was wonderful," Malfoy answered before Harry even got a chance to think. "Just as I - _we'd_ hoped. I only wish you could have been there, Miss Chang, but the guest list had become extortionate. I'm sure you can understand."

Cho nodded, scribbling on her clipboard with a sudden ferocious passion. "There are rumours amongst the public that this wedding was an arranged one, and that you have Harry under the Imperius curse, Mr. Malfoy. What do you say to that?"

Cho's face had turned a vile shade of purple, her eyes shifty and her cheeks blushed. Malfoy's blue eyes became narrow as her shoulders tensed in anticipation. But he only laughed, his face breaking into an easy smile and waving away the idea in a flourish of practiced charm. He'd gotten good at lying. There was a certain ease to Malfoy's whole manner, a strange underlying tone to every action he took, every word he uttered. It was a feeling of calm, of gentle tranquillity, as though his temperamental anger had been soothed - Harry knew better than to think that all was well when it came to Malfoy's rage, but he played the part of the strong yet collected celebrity well.

"No, of course not," he chuckled. "The people can rest easy, their beloved Harry Potter is very much in control of his own actions, aren't you?"

An elbow jolted Harry to the side and stabbed painfully into his ribs, making him have to wince to stifle a grunt. "Remember your acting, Potter," he heard muttered in his ear, from lips that were agonisingly close one second and miles away in the next. Harry resisted the considerably strong urge to jam his own elbow at Malfoy's side, but knew it wouldn't do him any good.

Instead, Harry forced a smile across his features when Cho looked to him for confirmation. "I'm not under any curses," he said lamely, but how else was one meant to convince another that they weren't being magically controlled by their former enemy?

"Only my spell," Malfoy uttered into Harry's ear, low enough to reside as just a murmur to Cho, but sent Harry's heart reeling in broken, hasty beats. It was all just an act for Cho's report, he knew - if Malfoy could convince her, then her article could convince the whole nation. But that knowledge didn't sooth the ache he felt to press his lips to Malfoy's, which were curved into a grin that would have sent him over the edge had he no self-control.

With a sharp breath to still himself, Harry snapped his eyes away from the blonde and deafened his ears to the chuckle that sounded from Malfoy's throat. A rock was stuck in Harry's own, burning through his airways and silencing any desired speech, whilst mines littered his imagination, triggered by the slightest of gestures from Malfoy that would send Harry unwillingly in a plethora of wild dreams. He couldn't deny the rumbling feelings of desire surging through his body every time he laid his eyes on Malfoy, with his rigid scowl and sharp jaw - but that didn't mean he had to give in to it.

"Well, um," Cho staggered, disrupting Harry's thoughts as the lingering softness in Malfoy's gaze turned false. Cho fidgeted in her armchair, faced with a level of intimacy that she likely found just as perplexing as Harry found it unwillingly arousing.

"The wedding seemed quite... sudden," Cho went on. "The announcement was, after all, made less than 24 hours before the service took place, and nobody had been aware of your... r-relationship until then. Was there a reason for this?"

Malfoy gave an uncertain look, before he shrugged with another one of his assured smiles. "It was a little short notice, but sometimes one cannot wait months, or even weeks, for the best day of their life to roll around. I admit, perhaps it was a rash decision, but it's not as though we haven't known each other for years. And besides, life is short."

Cho nodded, still constantly scribbling notes onto the parchment before her. Her hair, although tied up, was beginning to fall in front of her face in long, messy strands, and she reached to tuck a bunch behind her left ear. Harry, in a split second, remembered how much he'd liked her when they were in school, how timid she'd been around him, and yet still able to strike a chord of assertiveness when it mattered most. He remembered the kiss they'd shared that Christmas in fifth year... But now when she glanced at him, fleeting and clearly afraid, her eyes said she saw a totally different person.

"Lovely," Cho said smiling. But her mouth curved in an unnatural fashion, giving her a look more of pain than pleasantry. "Just one last question," she promised, "for Harry." Malfoy's brow shifted, lowering suspiciously, and he sent Harry a narrow-eyed look that warned him not to say anything too incriminating.

"OK," Malfoy agreed, as though giving permission for the question to be asked.

"Well, Harry... People have been wondering where you've been. The war ended, you practically disappeared off the face of the earth - some people even assumed you to be dead, even though the D-Dark Lord assured you were in hiding. Then you suddenly reappear after four years, and you're engaged to Mr. Malfoy... And, well, I guess what I'm asking is: Where have you been?"

Harry glanced back at Malfoy in immediate worry, and the blonde sent him back a slight nod, although there was still clear suspicion and avid attention in his stiff shoulders and thin smile. "I, erm," Harry started, baffled as to where to begin. "I _was_ in hiding. I went away after the war and stayed quiet for a while. I only just returned to England..."

"To give himself in," Malfoy finished for him. "Harry decided that the best course of action was to turn himself in to the Dark Lord, rather than living in deceit. And, of course, the Dark Lord spared him. After all, he is a fair leader, and the bravery and courage it must have took for Harry to hand himself over shone to him. He and Harry may have been enemies once - as he and I were in school - but things change, and the Dark Lord has every intention to forgive, even fallen heroes such as Harry. As Harry was staying here, we were able to catch up and, well, here we are."

Malfoy took Harry's hand in his own once again and gripped it, sending a sickly smile that made Cho sink even further into her seat. Harry's jaw only tightened, the pressure making his temples ache, and he remained stiff as Malfoy's thumb rubbed the back of his hand gently. He couldn't believe it - Malfoy was really using this interview as a way of promoting the Dark Lord's message? He was deliberately using Harry's heroic reputation to portray his efforts as a failure, likely to deter others from trying to overthrow Voldemort, whilst lying through his teeth about Tom's mercy - or rather, lack thereof. Harry tried to toll the friends of his he knew where dead, attempting to deduce from that who may be out there, laying in hiding from Voldemort's wrath. But with every person that came to mind - Sirius, Remus, Fred, Moody, _Ron_ \- he ached with grief. Would any of his old friends, if they read the article, realise that this marriage had not been Harry's choice?

"Great." Cho's voice degraded lower and lower in volume, until she was hardly speaking in more than a whisper, her fear shining through with every syllable. But by no means did she lose her professionalism, and was as polite as ever.

"Thank you for the interview," she said, smiling sheepishly. "I guess I should be going now."

"Yes, Miss Chang, thank you very much for your time. I hope it will be helpful for your article, and that your readers enjoy it."

 _If it ever reaches them,_ Harry thought, wondering how much of their true words would be cut from print by Pansy Parkinson or someone of higher status working for Voldemort. Tom had full control of the Ministry and anything associated with it, including the press, and Harry knew it really didn't matter what he said; they'd be made to look good anyway, he'd only be punished.

Cho rose to her feet, clipboard clutched to her stomach once again, and her expression was pained as she stared down at the couple before her. But any desired words were trapped like a fly in a web at the back of her throat.

"Anything else, Miss Chang?" Malfoy offered, his tone growing impatient, and Cho sighed in relief for the opening.

"Well, I was wondering if I could speak to Harry off the record," she said timidly, eyes peering away from Malfoy's, especially when she added, "Alone."

Harry's gaze flickered over to Malfoy sat beside him, who was glaring back with hideous blame coating every essence of his tense expression. Yet when he turned back to Cho his face was soft and charming as always.

"Of course," he agreed pleasantly, although there was a certain bitterness to his uniform smile. "I'll be waiting outside. But please, do take your time."

Malfoy stood and left abruptly. The pastel blue of his robes appeared like a wave as it was swept out of the room, leaving a white blotch on Harry's vision.

"Harry." He remembered that Cho was stood there ahead of him only once she spoke his name. He scrambled to his feet to step closer to her, and stared back at him, watching with what seemed to be fascination. Her expression was a little less frightened now that Malfoy was no longer present, but her shoulders remained stiffened with tension, her voice still high pitched and taunt.

"Harry, where have you been?" she blurted. "All this time, after the war, after everything you promised us, you _left?"_ Her words were angry, Harry quickly realised, and whilst her eyes were welling up with tears already, she was by no means weakened by them.

"Cho, I -" he began, but what could he say? He couldn't really explain that he had been hunting horcruxes and running from Death Eaters the whole time, all the while knowing that he would have to be dead before Voldemort's reign could end. "I'm so sorry," was all he could choke out in response, but he knew the moment the words left his lips that it wasn't nearly enough.

 _"Sorry?"_ Cho barked. "Sorry! What are your sorrows going to do for all the people they've killed, Harry? For all the people who died for you, defending their families, while you ran off and had a holiday in Europe? We trusted you, Harry, we had faith in you!"

 _Well maybe the wizarding world needs to find a new hero to rely on,_ Harry's thoughts muttered from the bitter forefront of his mind. No one understood, did they? Why was it his responsibility to save everyone from Voldemort? Since he was eleven he'd heard a whole hoard of prophecies and beliefs that he was the saviour, but who gave a fuck about prophecies anyway? Why couldn't anybody else take a stand and have a go at it for him?

But a second later he retracted that, knowing his thoughts were unfair. He wasn't the only one who'd had a damn good stab at defeating the Dark Lord, but then again he definitely wasn't the only one to fail.

"And now you're marrying a _Death Eater?"_ Cho went on, her voice growing louder and more vindictive with every word she hurled his way. "Harry, what happened to you? Are you on their side now, or did you just turn out to be a coward?"

A coward? Harry had never been associated with the word, although he could think of plenty of people who were. Involuntarily, his steps retreated backwards and his solemn expression turned curious. Did she really think that of him, that after everything he had decided to join Voldemort? Within him was a fireball of rage that simmered and died at the prospect that perhaps she was right - had he fallen into cowardice by following Malfoy's orders, all to save his own skin? The thought made him sick.

Harry stepped forward again and reached out to touch Cho's arm. She flinched away, but on her face was a look of regret. Maybe she'd seen some semblance of the disappointment that had dawned on him.

"Harry," she uttered. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to -"

"No," Harry interrupted. " _I'm_ sorry. I'm so sorry for everything, but I don't want this. I don't want to be married to Malfoy, and I don't want to do anything they tell me to. But I've tried everything, and nothing works. Voldemort just comes back stronger and more people die because of me. Maybe that makes me a coward but I won't fight against him if it means people will get hurt."

"We can't give up now," Cho whispered as her fearful tone softened even more. Hate filtered completely from her face and was replaced by concern and relief. "You have to try. If they're making you do all of this then I can find people, we can get you out of here and we can -"

 _"Obliviate!"_ Then came a harsh whisper, and Harry knew before he even turned around that there would be a blonde figure standing in blue at the door, his wand pointed at Cho as her eyes turned glassy and she toppled back into the armchair behind her. Malfoy's face was stern, his jaw clenched and his eyes narrow. Harry gulped, but he wasn't scared of Malfoy. What could he do anyway? Malfoy had been too much of a coward to kill Dumbledore, so Harry doubted he had the courage to do much more now. Even when Malfoy's wand turned on him, pointed straight at his chest from across the room, Harry didn't flinch or regret a single one of his actions.

"You were listening," Harry snarled, anger making his saliva burn and sizzle.

"Of course I was," Malfoy said sternly. "Do you really think I'd trust you to be alone with her? The best case scenario was that you two would fuck on my floor and make a mess, but it seems you've made one without ruining my carpets -"

 _"Don't,_ Malfoy!" Harry barked. He watched Malfoy flinch back, his taunting knocked away. "Don't fuck about, I don't have the patience."

"And you think _I_ have the patience for this?" Malfoy retorted, scoffing. "We have a dinner to attend with the Goyles in a few hours and I need to make myself - and you, it seems - look presentable. I really don't have time for your childish games of defiance."

Harry clenched his teeth. He hated when Malfoy spoke to him as though he was some misbehaving child. It reminded him of Bellatrix, and that in turn made him recall Sirius' body falling into the void behind the veil. In fact, he hated everything about Malfoy, especially every part of him that his unconscious mind thought was somehow attractive.

"And what if I don't want to go?" he said. "What if I refuse to go to your stupid fucking dinner? You could make me go, but I'd only sit there and insult your guests, give you a bad name - and you can't exactly go around obliviating everyone who sees me. What are you going to do about it? You can't kill me."

Malfoy shrugged, although the stiffness of his shoulders made the gesture uneasy and forced. "The Dark Lord wants you alive, yes, but he never said anything about torturing you. I can do whatever I please so long as your heart is still beating."

Malfoy's grip on his wand was tightening, and his temples were almost pulsating with rage, just as they had back in school. It was how Harry knew he was beginning to piss the man off, and a part of him revelled at the idea. He could see Malfoy's lips quivering, yearning to utter a curse that would have Harry on his knees at his mercy yet again. Harry wished he would stop resisting and just do it.

"Go on then," he urged Malfoy, whose face contorted into one of suspicion. "Do it. Use the Cruciatus curse on me - I know you want to. I don't care what you do to me. Or maybe you want to use the Imperius curse instead, force me to behave for you. Then you can make me fuck you - 'Cause you want that too, don't you?"

Malfoy stared blankly, his wand still held up ahead of him like a shield, but his face gave no sign that he planned on hurtling any curses Harry's way. Instead he just shook his head, but didn't reject Harry's claims outright.

"Go on, do it!" Harry shouted his way again. "Nobody's stopping you - what are you waiting for!" He strode towards Malfoy, advancing on him until the tip of his wand was just inches from Harry's chest. Harry willed Malfoy to do it, to utter all the curses he could think of and leave him in a mess of pain and helplessness. At least then he'd have another reason to hate Malfoy, another thing to remind himself of whenever he deliriously wondered what the blonde would look like in a lot less clothing. And, as a bonus, a pain to make him feel as though he wasn't the coward Cho would have happily made him out to be, that he was doing something right.

But Malfoy didn't utter a single spell, but merely lowered his wand from Harry's chest and shook his head yet again. "I don't need to do that," he said calmly, slitting his wand into his back pocket and guiding his light blue robes over to cover it. Then his gaze fell back on Harry. "I don't have to lay a finger on you," he said, his mouth curling into a sly grin. "I'll just go and have a little chat with Granger instead."

All of Harry's pretences fell away then, all his anger and defiance evaporating to leave behind raw worry. "Hermione?" he uttered in shock. "What do you mean, you'll chat with her? Y-You told me she was dead."

Malfoy sighed and swept past Harry into the room again, setting himself back down on the sofa and resting his arm over the back of it, making himself comfortable as though this was all just some casual chat. "Well," he said. "In all honesty, I thought it was the most likely option. It's very rare that the Death Eaters will spare a traitor, especially one as well-known as Hermione Granger. But my aunt visited the remaining cells at Azkaban just before the wedding, and she returned to inform me that your friend is very much alive. Although, unharmed... That's another question entirely."

Harry stormed towards Malfoy and launched himself at the blonde, grabbing him by the shoulders to slam him back against the sofa. "Don't you dare hurt her!" Harry spat back at him, but his shirt was jerked downwards before he could finish his threat. Another hand at the back of Harry's neck brought his lips to Malfoys, holding him so that his squirming did nothing to help him escape. Malfoy kissed him as though they hadn't been ready to tear each other's throats out just seconds ago, and between their lips hung a grin - Malfoy's, not Harry's - which made the blonde kiss even harder.

At first Harry considered kissing him back - just for a second, to see what it would taste like if he was to do all that Malfoy asked. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad after all, perhaps make his life a little easier despite the fact that he was married unwillingly to someone who had formerly been one of his least favourite people. But he couldn't do it; a part of him still nagged away, telling him that Malfoy was the sort of person he should have been cursing, not _kissing._ He shoved the other man away, but Malfoy's fingers were wired around his shirt, still holding him within inches of the blonde.

"Oh, of course not," Malfoy said, continuing on as if the kiss had never even happened. "Nobody really wants to have to hurt dear Granger any more than she already has been. But that's down to you, Potter. Wouldn't it be a shame if poor Granger was to be accidentally killed on the same day that you, say, attempted to escape the Manor?"

Harry suddenly went quiet, and very pale, realising that what he was involved in wasn't just a kidnapping, or an arranged marriage, but _blackmail?_

"You won't get out of here, Potter," Malfoy went on. His smile had disappeared and the look on his face almost resembled sorrow. "The Dark Lord will find another place for you if you can't behave here, and another one of your few loved ones to use against you once Granger is dead. And let me promise you this: another man may not be so kind when it comes to hospitality. I know many men who would be a lot harsher with you than I am, so count yourself lucky that the Dark Lord came to me first."

Malfoy's eyes had taken on a cunning glaze, and his fingers weren't shy when it came to lacing themselves in Harry's hair and stroking his skull beneath. He held his eyes shut and made himself imagine Hermione now, trapping in a cell somewhere, likely in pain and still grieving for Ron in silent isolation. He wondered if she thought he was dead, and whether she would grieve him, or instead hang the blame on him. Either way, he knew he wouldn't be able to live with himself if she was hurt because of him. If it had been anyone else, an inkling of wonder as to whether being Malfoy's slave was worth it would have sprung to mind, but when it came to Hermione there was no question; she was his best friend, and he would do anything he was asked if it would keep her safe. He opened his eyes to see Malfoy's perpetually devious features gazing back at him, and wondered again how his life had come to this.

"What do want from me?" Harry demanded.

"From you?" Malfoy whispered. His words would have been hardly audible if Harry hadn't been so close. Malfoy drew him closer until he was practically sprawled over the blonde's lap. "I want this," Malfoy hissed as his mouth got nearer to Harry's ear, sending a shiver down the dark haired man's spine. "I want _you..._ Doing everything I tell you to do, just as I tell you to do it. With no arguments, no unnecessary defiance, and just a few manners. All this, and your friend lives. If not, there are plenty of people I can ask who would be over the moon to slit Granger's throat right before your eyes - and don't think I won't make you watch. Just behave, Potter, and that includes anything I tell you to do in private, as well as in the public eye."

Harry scowled as memories of the night before sprung to mind, recalling with embarrassment how easily he'd been succumbed to Malfoy's charm. Now, Malfoy's hand released its grip on his shirt, wandered idly over his chest and stroked at the curve of his collar bone.

"Does that seem like something you can do, Potter?" Malfoy asked, and Harry nodded back. His lips grazed softly over Harry's as he spoke, his breath reaching out in tendrils to brush over Harry's mouth and seep through to touch the tip of his tongue.

"OK then," Malfoy said, pleased, and pushed Harry to the side so he could climb to his feet. Harry collapsed back into the sofa, doubting his heartbeat would ever return to normal again.

Malfoy straightened his clothes and looked back on Harry with an amused expression. "Come on, Potter," he said. Harry checked himself and sat up, but not before Malfoy could smirk spectacularly at him. "My mother wants to speak with you, and we can't have you dining with the Goyles in this messy state."

Harry clenched his jaw, but complied with Malfoy's orders, reminding himself of Hermione whenever he thought that ringing the man's neck would be a good idea.


	5. Chapter 5: Borgin and Burke's

Chapter 5: Borgin and Burke's

"Now then."

Narcissa Malfoy's voice may have turned stark and cold, but she retained her etiquette: she kept her hair clipped into a bun at the top of her head, whilst her chin was raised, a small, delicate smile gracing her features.

"Do you know your manners, Harry?"

The former Gryffindor, who stood stiffly opposite her, could have scoffed had he not been so taunt with suspicion as to her intentions. But her tone, whilst it may have been patronising, was just as threatening as her son's could be, laced with the promise of punishment if Harry refused to obey. The young man kept his tongue tied and his eyes sharp, watching. "Yes," he replied plainly.

Mrs. Malfoy raised her eyebrows, and her gaze darkened to an expectant glare. "And they are...?"

"Erm..." Harry strained to recall the many times he'd been scolded by his uncle and aunt as a kid, when their visitors - always portrayed as grand, incredibly important people - were around. The distinct bark of Vernon's orders sprung to mind immediately, but Harry couldn't imagine what any of them had been for. "Please and thank you?" he guessed.

"Yes," Narcissa said in an exasperated sigh, and her hand flew to her temples. She turned away to profusely prod away the tiny beads of sweat that had started to arise from her brow. "Perhaps Draco was right: You should stay as silent as you can during dinner." Despite his earlier threats to Malfoy, Harry didn't plan to act in any other way.

Narcissa's hands fell from her forehead all of a sudden, and she stalked back towards Harry with the same stern frown, her feet clicking against the solid floor with every step she took. For a moment all she did was stare, but somehow the intensity of that gaze crushed any words Harry would have said.

"Sit down," she told him, and he obliged, taking a seat at the dining table stood waiting between them. "Don't slouch. Sit up straight and keep your arms off of the table. Look up. Good."

A knife and fork clattered against the polished surface of the table as the levitation spell that had raised them fell away. "Pick up the cutlery." Harry did so, only to be scrutinised by another deep frown. "Not like that. Hold them properly."

"I know how to use a knife and fork," Harry retorted without thought, and Mrs. Malfoy's glare singed through him a moment later. Without another word, Harry lowered his eyes from hers and adjusted his hold on the cutlery.

Narcissa didn't say a word for a long while, and the silence that rattled through the room made the air cool - the metal of Harry's knife and fork, although both were pressed against his warm palms, was ice cold to touch. The surface of the table had become a bore to stare at; Harry glanced up, expecting Narcissa's wrath to bore down on him.

But when Harry lifted his head to see her, he found that her eyes were down, inspecting instead the ring on her finger, still marred with the bloody stains left by her husband's death from years ago. And in her eye was not rage but deep sorrow, carried by a welling tear that was swept away the moment she looked up again.

"It is not easy being married to a Malfoy," she warned. "But you have to get used to it."

"Get used to it?" Harry breathed. Any fear collapsed into dust, instead replaced by a tightening of his fists around the stark metal caught in them. "I'm supposed to _get used_ to the fact that you've got my best friend locked in a cell somewhere? And that I'm going to have to spend the rest of my life joined at the hip and mercilessly bossed around by an arrogant rich kid who is willing to go to any lengths to make my life hell -"

"He's my son," Narcissa interrupted, perfectly calm. "I ask that you don't speak about him like that in my presence."

Harry's nails were eager to dig into the handle of his knife, but he was struck by disbelief. "You really still see him as your innocent little prince? Even now that he's working for _Voldemort?_ "

"Do you think I wanted this for him?" Narcissa demanded, but in mere seconds the rage had worn off, and her voice plummeted back into a frail murmur. "I only want the best for my son. If I could give him a life without evil..." Her voice grew cold and quiet, dampened by fear. "Then I would. But I can't. I would do anything to maintain Draco's wellbeing, and I won't let the indecencies of a boy like you ruin his happiness."

Harry was silent. He stared at her, recognising the love she had for her son that had driven her to pledge allegiance to the Darker side. He'd wondered before the war whether she would change her allegiance, but she never had. He'd assumed that either she was as devoted to Tom as her husband, or she was just a coward. He hadn't imagined that Draco had been the determining factor.

"What about my happiness?" Harry challenged, and watched as Narcissa choked on a stiff breath.

"As I said," she answered. "You'll get used to it."

-TRANSITION-

Dining with the Goyles had never been a very festive affair, and no more so was it that night at Malfoy Manor. Mr. and Mrs. Goyle had arrived by Floo and - deeming themselves familiar enough with the Manor - made their own way to the dining room without Draco being informed. He was a little shocked to find them waiting for him there, already comfortable in their seats at each head of the table, but he was forced to smile stiffly and take another seat, closely followed by Potter and his mother, both oddly silent.

Greg, as always, was disastrously late. In fact, by the time he'd finally arrived, clad in black robes that were splattered and swathed in mud, the main course had already been duly served. The brute's gaze lingered over Potter with a suspicious glare as he took his seat, but his attention was quickly grabbed by the food littered over the table ahead of him.

Once the meal had been devoured, the click of a house elf's fingertips made the remains disappear, and Draco followed his unwelcome guests to the drawing room. Chatter swarmed in the air from the Goyle's as Narcissa fought to put up with their talk, and every so often a burst of raucous laughter would erupt from Mrs. Goyle for no obvious reason. Whilst Draco's skull was still lightly thumping from the night before, he couldn't turn down the unnecessary wine he was offered, sipping at it eagerly. Greg, meanwhile, slurped from his glass like a water hog, as the blonde's eyes trailed unintentionally towards the other side of the room.

Potter sat a while away from them all, tucked away in a corner with a book in his lap that he almost certainly wasn't reading. He'd been quiet all through the meal, silenced by frequent glares from all directions, and now his shoulders were hunched even further, gaze pinned to the floor as a curtain of dark hair clouded his features. Draco ought to get the other man a haircut, he thought idly.

"What's Potter doing here?" Greg asked between drowning mouthfuls of wine, tugging Draco's attention away. The blonde frowned, his fingers thoughtlessly reaching for the ring on his left hand.

"He's meant to be socialising," Draco grumbled, with another quick sip from his glass.

"Why would he do that? Hey - is there any more cake?"

And it was then that Draco decided it would be best to leave the man to his shallow thoughts.

Without a word of farewell to Goyle - not that the man was even aware that he left - he was moving swiftly over to Potter's reclusive corner. The dark haired man sat awkwardly still, his hair appearing as though he'd been ravished quickly in a cupboard as always. The dark, elegant robes Draco had picked out for him were ruffled over his frame, stiff and uncomfortable over his hunched shoulders. A drink was clutched in his hand but, as always seemed to be the case with Potter, not even a single sip had been taken from it.

"Are you trying to starve yourself?" Draco wondered as he approached, smiling in an attempt to ease the sadness that fell like a looming shadow over Potter's features. It hardly had any effect. "You barely ate anything at dinner. I'll tell you now: it's a waste of time and misery. You don't think we'd really let you wither away and die, do you?"

"I wasn't hungry," Potter muttered simply, his head down and his fingers fiddling idly with the rim of his glass. Draco set himself beside Potter on the couch with a sigh. His leg brushed lightly against Potter's as he sat down, and the other man shuffled away immediately in response.

"Oh, cheer up, for Merlin's sake," Draco huffed. "Misery really isn't a good look on you. It should be reserved for those who really have anything to cry about."

Potter's eyes shot up then as he scowled in Draco's direction, and the blonde rolled his eyes with an exaggerated flare. He recalled the look on Potter's face at the realisation that his friend - the dear, Muggleborn Hermione Granger - was alive, and that venomous rage was reflected in his eyes now. Draco couldn't fathom what had the man so struck with grief; the Gryffindor surely should have been pleased - at least she wasn't dead as he'd thought.

Draco fiddled with his wine glass, taking a nervous sip and detaching his eyes from Potter's to glance around the room. "I'm going out for the rest of the afternoon," he announced unexpectedly. "After the Goyles here have left, of course."

"Erm, OK," Potter murmured.

"I have some business to deal with at the shop - Borgin and Burkes, I'm sure you've heard of it -"

"Borgin and Burkes? You _work_ there?"

"Yes, Potter," Draco replied, his impatience filtering into a patronising tone. "Most people who aren't celebrities from birth have jobs in order to _live_. My father may have gotten by on his inheritance, but this Manor hardly runs itself, and I intend to pay into it rather than feed out. Anyhow, I was wondering if you would like to come with me."

Potter's frown didn't leave his features, only altered from shock into suspicion with the slightest raise of his dark eyebrows. "Are you actually asking me, or do I have to come?" he asked in a sarcastic scorn. Draco only tutted.

"Honestly, Potter, if I was going to make you come I wouldn't waste my breath asking." In one last swift moment Draco's glass was suddenly drained. "Yes, I was asking. Do you want to come or not?"

"No," Potter retorted. "Why would you think I'd want to come?"

"I don't know," Draco grumbled. "Perhaps you could have bought yourself something nice along Diagon Alley - It seems to me that some conditioner might do you some good." He gestured a curt nod towards the dishevelled mop of dark locks on Potter's head, some of which fell over his eyes, and the other man simply glared back in response.

"No thanks," Potter said, sarcasm fresh on his tone as though his tongue had been coated in it.

"Well, I'll be going then," Draco returned decidedly, standing to adjust his robes in a definitive manner. "See you later tonight."

-TRANSITION-

A tiny bell rang above Draco's head as he entered the store. It was a sound that echoed around the decaying old shop, and resonated in Draco's ears, along with the lingering memory of the quaint little store when he'd first laid his eyes on it. It may have resided on the dark cobbled streets of Knockturn Alley, which was nowhere near as lively as its adjoining neighbours, but even though the store front had grown dejected and scarred by age, its corner had always been a beacon of intrigue to Draco.

Candles flickered alight with a wave of his hand as he entered, and the wooden floorboards beneath his feet were glistened with a sombre brown hue. The same childish excitement that had hit him the first time he'd stepped into this store welled in his stomach, glazed eyes swimming over the antiques that surrounded him, each one tarnished by age yet appearing like gold to the blonde. It would never get old, that beautiful feeling of being home that stirred inside him whenever he came here.

After the war, most of Diagon Alley and its adjoining roads were left as wreckage, torn apart by battles waged on their cobbled streets. Borgin and Burkes had been lucky to survive, but whilst the walls remained, one of its owners - Mr. Borgin - had been killed, and the remained founder was left distraught by the loss of his friend. Too old and stricken with grief to carry on his dwindling business, Burke had been more than willing to give the store up to Draco, who in return had offered a hefty donation towards Borgin's funeral. He'd been sure to maintain the store's original name out of respect for its founders, but it was his. His own tiny haven of normalcy outside of his allegiance to the Dark Lord, and something else he was good at other than lying to the press - he'd quickly discovered that he had a certain talent for selling.

A shuffle from the store window made Draco's head turn, and the settled dust swirled in the air with him. His eyes spied out the maroon armchair that sat in the window - one that simply _refused_ to be sold - and the dark shadow sat on it, his breath hitching. But as the figure stood up and stepped into the light, Draco's worry dwindled.

"Burke," he greeted in relief. The old man still had a key, and would often visit the store when he wished. Draco didn't usually mind, but it was a little disconcerting at times to find an old man staring out from the large front window. "Good afternoon."

"Hello, Mr. Malfoy."

Draco passed him, setting off further into the store, and within minutes they were open for the evening. Customers didn't flood through the doors, but a steady stream of buyers was a welcome sight - and the money they passed over the counter to Draco often put a genuine smile on his face. Of course, he didn't need the money - the estate his father had left him was plenty for him to live off comfortably for the rest of what he hoped would be a very long life - but Draco was at a loss as to what he would do if he didn't run Borgin and Burkes. Lucius may have enjoyed keeping up with his contacts in the Ministry and beating his young son to a pulp as entertainment, but that was hardly necessary nor very enjoyable for Draco. He'd been afraid when he was younger that he would end up just like his father, but now that he was in the older man's shoes he saw how different they really were from each other.

Hours later, just moments after Burke had shuffled out the door without a farewell, a thick, dark figure strode in, and the bell that sounded seemed to shiver in fright at his entrance. Below his feet the ancient, worn rug seemed to shuffle and squirm against the weight of his boots slamming down on its fabric surface. The grim smile of their owner was the first thing Draco saw of the man's face, a flash of teeth among grey scale features, and the dark, narrow eyes of menacing intent met his a moment later. Draco did his best not to gulp. There was no mistaking the figure that had just entered his humble little store: One Fenrir Greyback, widely known as the most lethal werewolf in the country, if not the world.

"Mr. Greyback," Draco greeted when it seemed clear that the other man wasn't going to steer even a single degree from his direct path towards Draco's desk at the back of the shop. "How nice to see you."

"Malfoy," Fenrir sneered back, but his face still held the same smile. It was hard to tell sometimes whether the man was angry or plotting some devious task. He said nothing more, but only strode up to Draco's desk and stood in front of him, seeming tall and strong enough to beat mountains into ditches in just a single blow. Draco clambered to his feet as smoothly as he could master, but still the werewolf was a good foot taller than he was.

"What can I do for you today?" Draco remained as professional as his stiffened frame would allow, maintaining the same tone and script he used with all of the customers who entered the store. "Are you here looking for a particular piece, or are you more interested in browsing?"

The chuckle that rumbled from Fenrir's throat then sounded more like a growl, but still Draco tried his best to hold his nerve, even when the man stared down at him with pure murder in his eyes. "I'm not interested in _shopping_. I came to have a talk with you, Draco."

Fear welled up in Draco's throat without his consent, delaying his response, as his eyes fluttered unwillingly through the front windows of the store and onto the cobbled streets beyond, where he could just about make out a group of dark clothed men, standing around and spitting into the tiny streams of lingering rain that lined the streets. They were undoubtedly Greyback's pack. Draco hoped with all his will that the fact that none of them had entered with Fenrir meant they would wait outside throughout the duration of this "talk".

"Well, would you like to come through to my office? It may be a little more private if this -"

"That's not necessary," Fenrir insisted with his usual devilish smirk. On the werewolf's warped wolfish features the grin was evil, contorted with an inbuilt craving to kill that shone out from his sharp canine teeth. "We can talk here. It will only be a short chat."

"Of course," he agreed, resisting the urge to flee back into his office as his queasy knees willed him to. "What is it you want to speak about?"

"You're married," Fenrir stated boldly. Directness was common among werewolves, along with a temper and an impatience which Draco could certainly identify with. "I'm curious as to why?"

"It was the Dark Lord's wish."

"To that Potter kid too," Fenrir went on as if Draco hadn't spoken a word. His hand - large and speckled with dark bushy hair, covering his coarse skin and trailing down his fingers - grazed over the robes at his side, where his wand undoubtedly was kept. "Why did he want you to marry him?"

"It's not my place to ask."

"Hm." The werewolf didn't look convinced. "The Potter boy should be caged up, though, shouldn't he? If the prophecies are correct, wouldn't it be safer for everyone?"

Fenrir's dark eyes assessed Draco, becoming narrow and questioning, but his hand moved swiftly away from his wand.

"The prophecies said nothing about the saviour being a horcrux," Draco pointed out calmly. "So I very much doubt they are at all correct. And you are misled in thinking that the Dark Lord is foolish enough to believe in such folly - he is above childish prophecies."

The words were a complete lie: The Dark Lord believed every word of the prophecy, he lived by it. But the look on Fenrir's face was too smug for Draco to bare agreeing with anything he had to say.

"You don't seem to be too against the marriage," Fenrir accused. Draco stiffened.

"I'm not. It was the best course of action and I am to follow through with it."

"Does that mean you're fucking him, Malfoy?" Draco could feel his cheeks heating up at the suggestion. He tried to feign surprise, but for once his pristine act failed him; the false expression was thin and delicate, his true thoughts clear as day beneath.

"I'll take that as a yes, then," Fenrir said. "Strange. Most men your age would do anything to stay a bachelor for as long as they can."

"Perhaps I'm not like other men," Draco suggested through gritted teeth, tingling fingers locked at his sides with the insistent urge to grab his wand and send a curse at the man.

"No, you're not," Fenrir agreed, before his cunning smile broke into another burst of sinister chuckling. Then his hands rested themselves flat and heavy on the edge of Draco's desk and the werewolf leant towards him, his words deep and menacing when he muttered, "You're a bent little twat, that's what you are."

Around them, the sparse crowd of browsing shoppers turned their heads in imperfect unison and let out a communal gasp at the words, but whilst Draco felt an internal need to hush the forming rumours, Fenrir was anything but fazed. He remained leant down to Draco's level, his grim expression just a foot or so from Draco's own refrained features.

"There's no need for that kind of language," Draco chided hastily, to the relief of his customers, who turned their collaborative hate on Fenrir instead. "This is a family friendly establishment, Fenrir, and if you continue I will have to ask you to leave."

Fenrir only scoffed, and pushed himself off from the desk. He stood tall and menacing above Draco with his arms crossed over his chest. "You just go ahead and try," he sneered back, baring his teeth as a dog would to a passing fox. In a second Draco had grasped his wand from his side, but had it only half raised before he was stopped by Fenrir's raised hand.

"OK, I'll go. I was just... Curious. I got what I needed." His hand fell, and he grilled Draco with a deathly glare. "But remember: Next time I might not leave so peacefully."

Then Fenrir's frame disappeared, and was replaced by dark fog which quickly dissolved into the ceiling above as he Apparated away. A second later the group of dark figures stood outside departed in the same fashion, and Draco was left to sooth the worries of his customers alone, with the weight of Fenrir's threats hanging on his shoulders like gravestones.

-TRANSITION-

"Where have you been?" the aggravated blonde facing Harry demanded. A house elf prodded the back of Harry's legs, pressing him to enter the room rather than waiting outside and irritating Malfoy. The elf had fetched Harry from the library where he'd been hiding and brought him here, to Draco's chambers. Now, the poor creature shivered more than Harry would have thought possible, and with one leering glare from Malfoy it sprung out of existence just as swiftly as it had arrived.

"Trying to avoid you, as it happens," Harry grumbled back, Malfoy's features softened from their stiffened agitation, moulding into a mocking pout.

"Me? Really? Am I that unbearable, Potter?"

Malfoy's hand reached out to brush over his chest just as his eyes began to stray away from Harry's. The cold trail of Malfoy's fingertips seeped through Harry's shirt, and managed to send an unwelcome tingling down his spine.

"Well, you'll just have to put up with me as best you can for the rest of our lives, huh?" The blonde glanced back up at Harry, his hand still firmly placed in the middle of his chest, and he grinned wider than a Cheshire cat.

"You can't run away from me," he uttered. "I'm inescapable, Potter."

A fist tightened around the front of Harry's shirt and towed him to Malfoy's lips, which pressed hard against his as though they meant to leave a bruise. Harry was caught off guard, although his arousal jerked to a peak at the sudden contact. But his immediate reaction was to push Malfoy away, slicing through the kiss as though it was made of nothing but air. Malfoy only chuckled.

"Come in," he said, stepping back to allow Harry into the room and seeming unfazed by the incident.

The door shut behind Harry as he entered of its own accord, and though he didn't hear a lock click into place, he still felt immediately trapped. The room around him was green - very green in fact, with wallpaper that dazzled emerald and wooden flooring that reflected the colour from its polished surface. The bed, stood on a platform at the other end of the large bedroom, was adorned with green covers too, shimmering as though they were made of silk.

"So," the voice of Draco Malfoy addressed Harry before he'd even gotten a chance to take in his surroundings properly. "How do you want to play it this time, Potter?"

Harry's feet shuffled beneath him, having become unusually restless. "What do you mean?"

"Well, the last time we were in this room together, I distinctly recall you on your knees. And as lovely as that was, it has been a rather long day; I wouldn't mind laying down tonight."

Harry gulped, finding suddenly that his tongue was coated in saliva. Malfoy stepped closer, testing, before the blonde leaned in close enough to whisper, his lips just inches from Harry's ear.

"Don't forget," he uttered, "The life of your dear mudblood friend is entirely in my hands. I don't even have to kill her - in fact, I intend to keep her alive as long as I need to - but I can certainly make her life hell."

Harry squeezed his eyes shut, rejecting the thoughts that sprung to him - he didn't want to think about Hermione, not now. The close proximity of Malfoy's body was making his skin warm, simmering under the intense pulse rate he was beginning to feel below the belt. He would have loved for this to be a dream where he could delve into his fantasies and not have to face the consequences for them. He shouldn't have felt such a magnetic pull towards his enemy, but he could hardly resist the draw. Malfoy drew back, gazing into Harry's eyes, and despite his talk, the blonde's eyes widened with surprise when Harry leant down to kiss him.

Instantly, Harry's hands escaped him. His lips were pressed to Malfoy's, held there by the slightest touch of the blonde's hand against his arm which he didn't pull away from, whilst his own fingers were spread wide over Malfoy's back, drawing him closer with every stolen breath. The silk of his shirt slithered beneath them, sliding between two layers of skin that yearned with a magnetic pull to touch. Harry gripped the material in two fists, sensing Malfoy's body heat radiating from below, and he was overcome with a desire to tear the shirt off. He wanted to rip away the thin walls of fabric between them and feel Malfoy's skin melting into his, just as their lips were moulding together now.

He tugged, and an air-slicing sound tore out from the shirt as it was slashed in half. Malfoy shoved Harry away immediately, and his attention shot down to his chest, now appearing like a slab of marble through the tear that ran down the centre of his shirt. Harry would have feared Draco's wrath had he not been so distracted by the sight, but the unconstrained grin painted on Malfoy's features soon showed that he was hardly annoyed.

"Merlin," he sighed through ragged breaths. "You do like to break things; don't you Potter?"

In response, Harry grabbed the other man by the waist and tugged him forwards, kissing him again as his hands crept underneath the now-useless piece of material that used to be called a shirt. "Or maybe," he said. "Maybe I just like unwrapping presents."

"Presents? Don't tell me you're going to be this messy at Christmas."

Their lips met again, even harder and longer this time, and with at light tug at Harry's hips the blonde had their crotches pressed together, each of their pants tighter than they had been minutes before. Harry's spine tingled again, right at the base where he coul feel a swarm of arousal that threatened to burst any moment. But it only made him press his lips to Malfoy's even harder. The blonde's hands left Harry's waist and cupped his crotch, massaging with fingers that made him want to writhe. Harry had to pull away for air, and in the pause Malfoy's eyes assessed Harry's with a depth to their blue that made the Gryffindor anxious.

"What changed?" Malfoy asked, but Harry couldn't respond. Nothing had changed really, not his hatred for Malfoy, nor his strange unwanted attraction. But now he knew that Hermione's life was in his hands, and he had to do this - whether he wanted to was of no real matter, was it? Harry didn't want to think, he just wanted to do, and so he pressed himself into Malfoy's waiting palm with a low groan and silenced him with another kiss.

Shoved backwards, Malfoy's back hit a firm mattress and Harry fell with him, yet their contact didn't snap apart even once. Only a sheet of torn fabric slid between them when Harry lifted Malfoy's shirt over his head and slung it into the floor, allowing his hands to roam as they wished over the blonde's thin frame. Harry's skin may have been coarse and broken, torn by scars that littered even his fingertips, but against the tepid flesh of Malfoy's back they turned to silk, gliding over jutting bones and sinking blunt fingernails into soft skin. Malfoy's breath hitched at the feeling, as his kiss deepened.

"You were right this morning," he uttered against Harry's lips. "I do want you to fuck me."

Harry didn't say anything in response, but pressed Malfoy even further into the mattress with his weight. The pressure of their crotches grinding against each other made Malfoy's eyes flutter closed, his head tipping back as his legs parted. In his delirium, Malfoy's fingertips toyed with the hem of Harry's shirt, his touch creeping upwards as the dark haired man rushed to take it off. His lips slammed back onto Malfoy's laced with and urged on by raw passion, as he undone his trousers and kicked off his shoes - Malfoy hastily did the same. And in moments the two men were staring at each other, kept apart by only two layers of cotton and a few mere inches of air.

"Potter," Malfoy purred and sat up slowly, pushing Harry with him although their skin never touched. Harry knelt between the blonde's parted legs, eyes fixed on the swollen bulge that rested in between his thighs. Malfoy drew him closer with a hand at the back of his neck, and his fingers played with the short, ruffled curls there as he shuffled forwards, until his chest was flush with Harry's. The Gryffindor ran a tentative hand down Malfoy's back, fingers splayed, until they reached the waist of his boxers and crept underneath, tugging the material down as they went. Once Malfoy's boxers were at his knees, Harry grabbed an ass cheek and muttered an incantation that he knew like the back of his hand. Immediately, and with a deep groan from the blonde, Malfoy's opening grew hot and wet.

"Wandless magic," Malfoy uttered through a series of short, broken breaths. "Impressive."

"Stop talking, or I'll only remember that I hate you." Malfoy didn't say another word.

He lowered back onto the bed as Harry inserted an index finger into him, followed closely by a second, then a hesitant third. Malfoy writhed with every movement, his erection quaking with each heaving breath. As Harry pulled his fingers away Malfoy's hips idly followed them. Harry caught each side in piercing fingers - one half now drenched in a silky liquid - and pressed a warm kiss to Malfoy's lips, who whimpered when his cock brushed against Harry's boxers. The dark haired man discarded them, shuffled forward, and his fingers dug into Malfoy's hips as he thrust into him for the first time.

Immediately, a groan erupted from Harry's throat. He laid his forehead on Malfoy's chest and continued, developing a slow rhythm that grew faster as Malfoy's fingers grappled with his hair. Skin blared hot with arousal, pressed together in too many places to count, as Harry rolled his hips and eased deeper and deeper inside. Malfoy's moans turned to murmurs, low and stifled of breath. All Harry could make out was one word: Faster.

A sudden intake of breath from the blonde beneath him compelled Harry to glance up, brow sticky with sweat and fingers aching with the grip he'd anchored into Malfoy's hips. Malfoy clamped his eyes shut, mouth opened slightly and his face capturing a look of delirium. Harry rolled his hips, watched Malfoy flinch and did it once more, only to have another long groan fill his ears and feel a warm, sticky mess splatter over his stomach. Harry's own moan quickly matched Malfoy's and with a few sharp strokes his vision blurred, his spine stiffened and his breath hitched, before a flurry of similar consistency was realised.

Harry breathed deeply, unable to catch his breath. His limbs, devoid of energy, quaked, and beneath him Malfoy was still other than the swift rise and fall of his ribcage. Harry pulled out slowly and collapsed, grateful for the soft pillow at his head and the mattress beneath him, but mournful for the slowly fading ecstasy that shivered through him. Warm hands found him, and a pair of lips were pressed against his, but Harry's eyes remained closed, soaking in the feeling as a thin arm curled around his waist and a head rested on his chest. Harry's fingertips found the familiar crease in the centre of Malfoy's back and laid there, tracing its satin path.

He fell asleep in Malfoy's arms and slept soundly, until a pounding in his forehead shook him awake.

-TRANSITION-

Draco slept soundly that night, and it was a pain to wake in the morning. A blanket of content made his limbs feel as though he was rested on a cloud, before a violent screech jolted him into consciousness.

"Mr. Malfoy!" cried the shrill voice. The blonde groaned, reaching out to smack away whatever was trying to disturb him, and his hand collided with a fleshy surface, large ears protruding from it that quaked as his hand made contact with them. He thought nothing of it, until the voice piped up again with another irritating cry, and Draco pried his eyes open to see a wide eyed house elf just inches from his face.

"Mr. Malfoy, wake up!" The elf was wailing. "The Manor has been invaded!"

Draco started at the sight of the sickening creature, and grabbed the sheets to cover himself, suddenly all too aware of his nudity. His attention, however, quickly shot back to the sheets in his grip, tugged to him with no resistance to suggest that there was another body holding them to the other side of the bed.

Draco sat up, and his head whipped around to find only crumpled sheets on the bed beside him. His hand fell onto the mattress beside him where he was sure his dark haired lover had slept that night, and found the fabric beneath his fingers still faintly warm.

"Potter," he uttered under his breath. Worry built up at the back of his throat like bile. Suddenly, he turned on the waiting house elf with a furrowed brow, demanding: "Where's Potter?"


	6. Chapter 6: Break-In

A/N: And we're finally back! Yet again, I apologise for the delay. I didn't plan to leave it on a cliff hanger and bugger off like that (so sorry!) Thank you to MagnificentFern for your review on the last chapter. I'm glad it was well received as I was a little nervous about the nature of that last scene. But it seems to have gone well - more of that to come, I hope!

Chapter 6: Break-In

At a sudden shock of pain drilling into his forehead, Harry was yanked into consciousness and his hand flew up to his scar. It was throbbing, badly, as though a blade had stabbed straight into his skull during his sleep. He winced, his forehead burning, and his eyes swept the room around him in fright. But the darkness proved empty, nothing to suggest a threat. Although he was still a little suspicious, the pounding at his brow quickly faded into a manageable ache, and he laid back down to curl his arms tighter around the sleeping body beside him.

Harry idly skirted his fingers over the other man's soft skin, as cold as ice in the night air. He laid on his side with Malfoy's back pressed against his chest, and the duvet pulled up to their shoulders so that they were cocooned in warmth underneath it. Harry pressed a gentle kiss to the sleeping blonde's shoulder, just to feel the sensation of his lips against that soft skin of his. He closed his eyes again, and tried to write off the flash of pain as a psychic kick from Tom's unsettled nightmares.

But then the pain struck again, this time harder and with a bite behind it that felt like rage. Harry was yanked out of his peaceful limbo and groaned, but worry tickled at his frustation. His scar always ached for a reason, and nine times out of ten it was some kind of dark omen for events to come. He couldn't simply ignore its painful warning.

Easing his arm out from underneath Malfoy's sleeping frame, Harry climbed from the bed and scampered for his clothes. He headed for the door, but darted back to press his lips to the other man's forehead before he departed. He could sense that there was something wrong as soon as he stepped outside, sliding the door shut behind him. Even ignoring the throbbing at his temples that shattered pain along his scar, his hair stood on end and his skin was littered with goosebumps. A rotton stench plagued the air around him, laced with magic.

As Harry made his way down the hallway, his fingers twitched at his sides, feeling empty without the wooden surface of his wand pressed between them. He wished he had it now. His original wand, the one he'd gotten at Olivander's when he was eleven, had been lost, tarnished by wear and eventually hurled into a marching army of giants, whose storming feet had trodden it into the ground in a million pieces. He'd thus had to make do with a wand he'd picked up, one which at first had made his palm ache to hold and had resisted even the most useless of spells. The wand had acted like a child throwing a tantrum after having lost their favourite toy, but over years of persistence it had eventually warmed up to him - albeit, a little reluctantly. It seemed ironic now that he wished it was gripped between his fingers again as he crept down the Manor's halls - maybe then he wouldn't have felt so vulnerable.

Without warning, Harry's scar flared up in pain; he had to stifle the cry that came with it. He was nearing the end of the hall, within just a few hesitant steps. Once the blaze of sudden pain had died down, he found he was close enough to hear the disjunct sound of voices wafting through an open door up ahead.

"I _told_ you this wouldn't work," came a flustered tone as Harry sunk forward to listen in closer.

"Of course not," another person added. "This is useless. Malfoy's practically got a leash tied around Potter's neck."

"Draco keeps him pretty close," the first voice came again, this time less frustrated and more mocking. "I wouldn't be surprised if the tosser's playing this _'husband'_ act to the 'T'. They're probably at it like rabbits as we speak!"

The two voices, both distinctly male, laughed at their own assumptions in vindictive guffaws, until a third presence hushed them.

"Shut up and stop acting like children!" the new voice barked. "We have a job to do." Beneath the obvious hostility to their tone sat a methodical anger, as though the words were less of an outburst and more of a tool for them to wield.

"Yes sir," one of the men - Harry could hardly distinguish the first from the second - returned insincerely, before a stifled breath escaped through an obvious smirk. At once there was a thump, a muffled yelp, and heavy breathing all too close to the door Harry cowered behind.

"Are you mocking me?" The third voice had grown sinister, and reduced to no more than a whisper. Harry pressed himself against the wall and silently wished for his invisibility cloak. He bolted shut his mouth, stilled his breathing and tried not to make a single sound. He was all too aware of how close the voices were to the door.

"N-No - No, of course not!" The words were loud and blurted between staggered breaths, as though the man's throat was being constricted: held in the gnarled grip of someone's fingers, perhaps.

"Good. Well I expect that we -"

A thump fell heavily on the ears of all the three people and their secret onlooker. Harry cursed his own clumsiness - misguided focus paired with his lack of sleep had made his weight topple against the open door and swing it shut. A thundering crash hurtled its way around the room as Harry cursed silently again. He may as well have screamed it though, as he could already sense approaching footsteps to his left.

A towering figure stood over him, and Harry's knees cowered beneath him as all his thoughts turned to fearful mush.

"Potter." Harry was struck to find that the speaker didn't sound at all surprised by his appearance, as if they had been expecting him all along.

"Just the person we've been looking for."

-TRANSITION-

"Tell me, Grant." Draco's voice was coarse and dangerous as he spoke, like daggers to the ears of the head of the Manor's guard, who walked beside him stiffly. "How did this break in happen exactly?"

Grant's expression was taunt, his wand out ahead of him like a shield of protection. He glanced over at Draco with wide eyes. "I don't know, sir. It was a surprise attack, all of them were wearing dark masks. Most of them weren't even using much magic. We simply weren't ready for such a -"

"Well you ought to have been," Draco snapped back at the man who, for all his physical and magical strengths, was by no means the brightest nor the bravest of men. "Besides: How did they get through the wards?"

"I-I don't know. They seemed to be immune. I- There was nothing anyone could do to stop them." The man quivered with every word, whilst Draco rolled his eyes and wondered why his father had employed Grant as Head of Defence.

"I trust you will reinforce the wards to ensure that this won't happen again?" Draco said, and Grant nodded dutifully in response.

"Yes, sir. I'll put preparations in place immediately." Grant made an attempt to skirt away, but the blonde man caught him on the arm and pinned on him a deep frown.

"Has anybody seen Potter?" He asked, trying his best to mask the concern on his tongue.

"Potter? No, I don't think so. I'll have someone search for him - when I can."

"Hm." Grant may not have taken his worries seriously, judging by the dismissal in his tone as he flurried off down the hall in a rush, but there was something about Potter's sudden disappearance that had Draco on edge.

Once the guard had swiftly taken his leave, Draco took off in the opposite direction, heading for his office on the third floor. Long, draping curtains swept the hallway floor as he passed by each one, with deep orange sunlight bathing the air in a golden tinge that signified early morning. Draco took no notice of the sunrise, one identical to many others he'd witnessed and been less than impressed with in the past. His brow hung low, like a heavy weight over his eyes and temples, making his headache grow deeper by the minute. Focusing on his work would often sooth his worries, and right now he needed all the peace he could get. There was nothing he could do about Potter, safe roam like a madman around the Manor looking for him. But Draco would never have stooped to such a low, even for someone he was beginning to feel slightly more than just physical attraction towards.

Locked in his thoughts as he climbed a flight of stairs, Draco almost fell flat on his face as he tripped over a large object barring his path. His foot grazed against something ahead of him, his balance wavered and he needed to grip the banister in order to keep upright. And yet, when he glanced down to inspect the culprit, he found there was nothing there. The space ahead of him was completely empty to his naked eye, yet when he prodded the shape with his foot again he could feel something large and solid. He even thought he'd heard a tiny whimper from the area in question.

Draco fell to his knees and his heart began to race with stifled panic, as he reached out a hand to touch the surface of the invisible object yet again. A strange kind of material awaited him, something silky and smooth, but more so than even the finest of silk. It was like liquid glass beneath his fingertips, which quivered and rippled like waves. He could guess what it was, but almost hoped he was wrong, until his fist grabbed a thin layer of material which pulled away to reveal a familiar figure hidden beneath it.

"Potter," Draco breathed, his voice quivering with concern. It was Potter indeed, his body sprawled out across the stairs and wearing the same clothes he had the day before. He was limp, but a quick check of his pulse proved him alive. However, the snippets of his skin on show were littered with bruises.

Draco crouched closer to Potter and gathered the man's broken frame into his arms. His eyes caught on the invisibility cloak, now discarded on a nearby stair. The cloak was meant to be locked away deep in the dungeons along with Potter's wand and other belongings; Draco was dumbfounded as to how it had got here.

With a confused frown on his mouth, Draco looked back at Potter, whose own face was contorted into a look of pain. The blonde pulled him closer, until his matted black head of hair was rested against Draco's shoulder. Draco curled an arm around his back and rose his other hand to Potter's face, willing his eyes to open.

"Potter," Draco uttered softly to him. "It's me. Are you OK? Can you hear me?"

Potter's head bobbed in a lazy nod, but his eyes remained squeezed tightly shut. Draco stroked his cheek and held him tighter, but a cry erupted from the other man in response. Draco loosened his hold, and Potter's body seemed to fold up, crippling into a ball where his arms gripped his stomach. His knees were bent up against them, forming a protective barrier that repelled Draco's hands away.

"Potter," he uttered, startled into a hazy panic. "What is it? What's wrong?" He placed a hand on Potter's shoulder, absently expecting him to shrug the touch away. But instead Potter grabbed Draco's hand insistently and held onto it, with a desperate, quaking grip. His gaze met Draco's, eyes now wide and brow low with pain, and he placed Draco's shaking hand at the bottom of his stomach.

His shirt was sodden - wet with blood, Draco soon came to realise. He hadn't noticed the scarlet seeping through Potter's clothes, but now that he'd seen the vivid stain it was burned onto his irises and he couldn't look away. He peeled back the edge of Potter's shirt and... The blood. There was so much blood. It tore through Potter's skin and pooled around a large wound that was gouged across the side of his stomach, before spreading to his clothes and staining the fabric.

Draco's breath caught in his throat, and his eyes trained on the wound, wide with panic. It was huge, cut deep into Potter's flesh like a bloody ravine, jagged and uneven. From afar anyone would have guessed that it had been induced by any old dagger, but if Draco peered closely he could see the edges tearing gradually away from each other, and hear the continual ripping of flesh as the wound burrowed deeper and stretched wider. It was magical, charmed to grow as though an invisible knife was digging away at it.

Draco jumped into action, snatching up his wand from his pocket and casting a counter charm that would hopefully slow down the bleeding long enough for him to get help. Then he clamped his own hand down on the wound and whispered gentle apologies to Potter's groans as he applied pressure to it. The sounds made Draco's heart squirm. He held Potter to him and burrowed his head in the other man's hair, as he Apparated away to find help.

-TRANSITION-

A hazy green flash of light appeared in the fireplace, and a pair of dark eyes shot up towards it, fleeting willingly away from the paperwork beneath them. Before he could even comprehend what was going on, a cloud of dust flooded from the fireplace - which was fortunately unlit - and following that emerged a blonde wizard dressed in bottle green.

"Draco," Blaise greeted from behind his desk, so familiar that he didn't even need to see the face of his friend to know it was him. The polished imaculacy of the man's hair and clothes was enough to let him know that Draco Malfoy was visiting.

"Blaise," Draco spluttered out as his hands idly brushed away the dust and rubble still clinging to his robes. "I think there's something off with your chimney.

"I need to get that checked out," Blaise muttered to himself, making a mental note. He gestured for Draco to take a seat in the chairs opposite him and returned to his seat himself, glad for the distraction from the mountain paperwork stacked up on his desk, threatening to topple over at any moment. He pushed it to the side of his desk dismissively, and looked to Draco, who took a seat in front of him.

"I hope you don't mind me visiting," Draco said, even though Blaise was aware that it was purely a formality; his friend would have come whether invited or not.

"Of course not," Blaise said. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Draco sighed, and a dark shadow of sorrow clouded his features, one that had Draco appearing paler than ever. "The Manor was attacked last night," Draco announced, and Blaise almost choked on his own breath in shock.

"Attacked?! How?"

"A group of bandits broke their way in and trashed the place. They were smart enough to leave before they could be caught."

Blaise frowned. He knew the wards surrounding Malfoy Manor like the back of his hand - he'd even been there to help put them in place. "It would take more than any old criminals to break into that place. Was anybody hurt?"

"Yes," Draco admitted hesitantly, a stone stuck in his throat to keep his words low and restricted. "Potter was stabbed. They left him hidden with a charm to make him bleed excessively."

"Harry?" Blaise thought aloud. He couldn't think of a criminal arrogant enough to dare to harm the boy, considering his attachment to the Dark Lord. "Is he alright?"

"Yes, just barely." Draco held a certain emotionless tone with the words, but then again there was also not even a hint of the devilish excitement that would have adorned his features years past at the idea of his foe in a hospital bed. If anything, Blaise was pleasantly surprised to find only solid concern lingering in Draco's gaze.

"Merlin knows how long he was there, but by the time I reached him he was close to bleeding out completely," the blonde explained. "But they managed to stop the spell. He's stable now. He's going to be OK."

"Good," Blaise sighed. "Well, I hope he recovers soon. Did you come to ask for more protective measures? I can station some aurors around the building if you'd like -"

"No," Draco said sternly, and his eyes detached from the surface of the desk he'd been staring at so intently to glance back up at Blaise. "I want you."

Blaise's eyebrows jerked and he leant back into his chair, repelled by shock. "What?"

Draco stood, his feet agitated and desperate to move about. His shoulders were low, head hung, with his hand at the back of his neck in an effort to itch a spot that couldn't be physically reached.

"I came to offer you a proposal," he explained to Blaise, who rose himself and paced around the desk. He hadn't seen Draco so restlessly distant since his father had died. "I want to hire you as Potter's personal bodyguard, to keep him safe and make sure nothing like this happens again."

Blaise noticed the jerk of Draco's shoulder blades through the emerald green of his robes and wondered if he was catching tears with his locked down pride. "Why me?" He wondered idly, hardly realising he'd said the words aloud they escaped so softly.

"Honestly," Draco sighed, with a hitch in his tone that sounded like a sob. "You're about the only person I trust." Draco cleared his throat and turned on his heel to face Blaise again.

"Not to mention," the blonde added with the hint of a smile on his lips to lighten the mood. "You must be at least adequate at combat to be head of your department, and I hear you're actually rather good."

But for all Draco's effort, Blaise didn't smile back so easily. His stance faltered as he crossed his arms and leant against the desk behind him, shifting to accommodate the towering pile still taking up much of the space. "You realise I have a job, right?" he pointed out.

"I'll pay you more than your current position does," Draco said without hesitation. Blaise sighed and shook his head in response, his eyes falling to the floor; of course the blonde's first thought was of money.

"That's not what I'm saying, Draco," he said. "Don't you think maybe I like my job? That maybe I don't want to leave the department in shambles while I babysit your husband?"

Draco frowned, a deep set shadow clouding over his face. "You think of yourself too highly," he muttered. "The department will hardly crumble to pieces. Besides, hopefully I'll only need your services for a few weeks, until the hype surrounding the wedding has died down. Surely your dear trainees can last that long without you?"

Blaise glanced upwards through lowered eyelashes at the blonde. He didn't want to decline Draco's offer, not because they were friends - if that was the only obstacle in his way he would have sent Draco away immediately, knowing he would understand - but more due to the value he knew Harry Potter was to the Dark Lord. Blaise had never held any allegiance to Voldemort, but being hired by him at what had formerly been the Ministry of Magic, and given the fact that the dark wizard practically ruled the country by this point, he could hardly ignore his wishes. A part of Blaise wished to growl in frustration, but he smoothed the rage over with a rub of his temples and tried not to snap at the smug look already painted on Draco's face.

"Fine," Blaise sighed. "When do I start?"

"Immediately. I'll contact the Minister -" By which he of course meant the Dark Lord - "and sort out your leave. We'll discuss a contract another time, but for now I can set up a room for you at the Manor."

The blonde was fretting, his mind whirring so loudly that Blaise could almost hear it through the stilted air, that was flourishing into waves of panic around Draco. The blonde fidgeted, his fingers gripping the sleeve of his robes. He turned back to the fireplace, assuming the other man would follow right behind him as he grabbed for a handful of floo powder from the dish that sat on the mantel piece. Blaise caught him by the wrist before he could step into the fire and fling it at his feet. Draco's hand shook at the sudden, unexpected contact, and a million tiny wisps of floo floated to the ground like snow and speckled the dark carpet beneath them. But Blaise hardly cared.

"Draco," he enquired. "Are _you_ OK?"

The blonde sighed, but his breath quivered too much for him to simply shrug off his friend's concern. "I'm fine. Only a little concerned," he said, albeit through clenched teeth and with a stiff, unwilling tongue. "I'm uncertain as to who orchestrated the attack last night, but whoever it was had no care for Potter's life. He could have died after all, and -"

"You don't want him dead?" Blaise was sure he saw his friend's bottom lip quiver, his nostrils flared.

"No," Draco uttered. "As it happens, I seem to have started to... _Care_ for him."

Blaise laid a comforting hand on his friend's shoulder, which was tense with pent up concern. "It's OK. Probably normal considering you're married."

Draco glanced back at him, eyes vacant, and for a moment it seemed as though he was about to say something profound. But instead, only a sigh escaped him, and he turned back to the fire, grasping a fresh handful of floo.

"Yes. Well if you don't mind, I'd like to get back to him as quickly as possible." The blonde stepped into the fire and Blaise's hand fell from his shoulder. "Are you coming?"

"Of course," Blaise assured him. "I'll be just behind you."

And with that, a vivid green flame engulfed Draco's figure and sucked him away into the ashes.

-TRANSITION-

The ceiling above was hazy with blotches of colour as a dark head rose from his pillow and gazed around. His skull, throbbing with a deep-set ache, was as heavy as a bowling ball, and his ears felt as though they were stuffed to the brim with cotton wool, making the world sound muffled and distant.

Harry raised a hand to press against his temples, but his disorientation made him miss and instead his fingers hit the bridge of his nose and then prodded at his cheek. He couldn't recall how long he'd been asleep for, but there was a pain in his side that just wouldn't cease to bother him.

As Harry's vision began to focus and the mushy shapes around him turned into objects, he realised he was laying in a bed, the mattress like a cloud beneath him and the duvet seeming to hover over his skin. His chest was bare, his back pressed into the mattress below and coated in sticky sweat. He was alone, and everything was still dark and blurry: he slowly noticed the absence of his glasses, and fumbled around on the bedside table to find them folded neatly beside what felt distinctly like a lamp. He switched it on and the room was suddenly illuminated.

And the first thing that greeted him was the loud flash of a camera, cursing him back into blindness.

"Stunning!" came an inspired whisper from across the room, and Harry blinked away the madness behind his eyelids as his body lurched into an upright position.

"Who's there?" he demanded, but found his voice was hoarse and scratchy, like sandpaper was lining his throat. "What are you doing?"

"Don't move!" the voice warned. Harry froze, startled, as his eyes searched the darkness for any sign of life. "Don't move another inch! I just need one more..."

Another blinding flash of light bathed the room, but in the fraction of a second that Harry's eyes could withstand the sting, he was able to make out a shadow crouched by the door. Then his eyelids rushed to shield his pupils and his world was plunged back into momentary darkness. Harry reached to rub at his eyes, which evidently did nothing to help the burning at the back of his eyeballs, but in the background of his thoughts he could just about hear the faint scuttle of footsteps across the mahogany floorboards.

Then a third light illuminated the room - but for longer than a single fleeting second. Another light had been switched on, one that made the dull beige of the walls glow faintly golden. But obscuring the rest of the room was a dark, leering figure that leant over Harry with wide inquisitive eyes, a camera in hand. The man's smile was broad and crazed as it encroached upon his gaunt cheeks, whilst his unwashed fringe formed a curtain that hid the vivid orange of his eyes.

"Harry Potter," he whispered. "I could get me a fortune with your photo, d'you know that?"

Harry watched in disgust as a trail of sticky perspiration dribbled down the side of the man's face. "What are you - a reporter?" Harry spluttered, but the figure only burst into a rage of cackling laughter.

"No!" he cried, before his mouth was pursed shut around the outburst and he shied away a few steps. He bent lower towards Harry, who felt as if the stiff mattress beneath him was a bed of needles trapping him in place. The camera was raised again, threatening as though it bore the promise of pain carried by a dangerous weapon. But meanwhile the lens appeared to resemble a giant eye to Harry's own, pouring deep into his soul and devouring it much like the dementors' kiss he still secretly feared.

"Get away from me!" Harry cried out as the man crouched down ever lower so that his breath was close - and potent - enough for Harry to smell. Perverted fingers grappled with the duvet covering him, the only thing maintaining his privacy other than a pair of boxers, which suddenly felt paper thin. Harry held tightly onto the covers, pinning them down with all the strength his fingers could muster and hitting away the intruding male hands. But his feeble blows bounced off the invader's arms like ants off of steel, leaving not a mark on skin or speed. The Gryffindor was wandless, but even if he had somehow acquired a wand, his mind was so dazed and panicked that he couldn't think of a single spell he would have planned to use. He felt helpless, prey to a laughable maniac whose obsession seemed to be photographing every inch of Harry Potter.

There was a crash, and the door burst open ahead of him. Relief rushed through Harry's veins, as muscled arms dragged his attacker away and tackled him to the ground. The smash of a camera lens shattering hit Harry's ears, and his breath escaped him. His eyes rolled shut, his whole body exhausted, and he would have happily faded into a peaceful world of sleep and stayed locked there for an eternity. But thin, quaking hands quickly found his shoulders and shook them, forcing him to remain devastatingly conscious. Muffled words prodded his eardrums softly as those same hands sought out his face, and trembling fingertips brushed over his eyelids as they were heaved open. Harry's vision was instantly filled with Draco Malfoy's striking features, which carried an expression that had previously been foreign to them: One of painful worry.

"Potter," his lips murmured, and his skin turned a shade that was impossibly pale. He didn't say anything more, the lulling of Harry's eyelids leading him to believe that he was lapsing out of consciousness. Instead Malfoy's hand stroked his cheek as the other buried itself in Harry's hair and made his skull tingle. Malfoy's hands were cool and chilling, yet they soothed Harry's heightened panic and made his breathing a little less shallow. And Malfoy's lips, when his head eventually dipped down to plant a soft kiss on Harry's crown, were heavenly.

"Draco," Harry slurred back, willing his lips to speak. Malfoy's face brightened at the sound of Harry's fragile voice and his features took on a look of surprise.

"You're awake," he whispered breathlessly, before his expression was tainted by worry. "Are you alright?" he pondered as his fingers sought Harry's and grappled onto his hand over the ruffled covers.

The dark haired wizard nodded, as his fingers laced between Malfoy's and the blonde's thumb stroked his wrist. "Jus' tired," he murmured, and his eyes lapsed shut again. When he opened them, Malfoy had turned back to the door. The eerie presence of the previous intruder had disappeared, and taken with it all of Harry's depleting energy. Harry heard the door ease open, and a floorboard moaned beneath the footstep of another person.

"It's OK," the voice said to Malfoy. "I'll be outside."

The door was eased closed yet again and Malfoy's eyes returned to Harry's, which were quickly losing their ability to stay open for more than a flicker of a second. Without a word, Malfoy kicked off his shoes and dropped his robes onto the floor, before climbing into the bed beside Harry, who nestled his head into the other man's shoulder. Malfoy drew him nearer with an arm around his torso, and stroked lightly at his mane of dark hair as the Gryffindor settled into a more comfortable sleep.


	7. Chapter 7: Hermione

Chapter 7: Hermione

The Daily Prophet, spread out on Draco's lap, seemed more like a book of fiction than a newspaper. Its ink stained the ends of his fingers and dusted the collar of his shirt, which he'd been anxiously adjusting all morning. His eyes flickered over the headlines, taking in the lies and exaggerations splattered across the page in thick black text. He frowned, surprised to find that it hadn't been written by Cho Chang - instead another young journalist, with hate in his heart and passion on the tip of his quill, had decided to spread incestuous rumours about the attack on the Manor.

Of course, all the press had seen was Harry's attacker being escorted from the building in magical cuffs - the crazed man who'd barged into Potter's room with a camera and scared the life out of him. This journalist, whose words now rubbed onto Draco's skin and irritated him, had derived that Draco Malfoy must have been beating his new husband, and that this man had been arrested for opposing him. His lies were more illogical than the truth, and now Draco's hands were balled up in fists around the edges of the paper, crumpling it between his fingers.

Pansy would never had published this article, but there were days when she was out of the office - at a meeting, working another story, or simply home early for the evening - when the Assistant Editor took over her responsibilities. The man, whom Draco had been acquainted with just once, had always held a deep resentment towards pure blood wizards, being a half-blood himself and apparently very fond of his muggle mother. He would have jumped at the chance to publish this headline in Pansy's absence. And the next morning, while Draco sat here staring at the paper and willing fire to spurt from his gaze, Pansy would have to act as though she didn't mind.

With all these thoughts swirling around in his mind, a whirlpool of rage, Draco's feet tapped nervously on the floor. He couldn't stop wondering if Potter was OK, currently tucked up in bed and ordered to stay there despite his objections that he was "fine". There was a medical team attending him at all times, and yet Draco couldn't help himself from worrying - someone had been able to get in the night before, and who knew if another would follow? His staff were clearly inadequate if they couldn't keep intruders from waltzing into the building two nights in a row, and it seemed like his nerves wouldn't still unless it was him there, protecting Potter from harm.

And what was worse, although the camera man had been caught and arrested, was that he wasn't at all involved in the Manor's attack the night previous, the one which had left Harry with a slash across his stomach. He'd just been a delivery man, who on the spur of the moment had decided to put his photography skills to the test and photograph the great Harry Potter. And so, unfortunately, they were no closer to finding out who had inflicted those injuries on Potter the night of the break in.

But now he was here, Draco reminded himself with a deep sigh, and his attention wavered to the advertisement beneath the Prophet's main story:

 _Large oak Ottoman for sale._

 _Sixteenth Century, in good condition._

 _Starting at 170 Galleons, will be sold to the highest bidder._

The picture that coupled the short advert may have seen quaint and humble to anyone else, featuring an old, tattered box, but to Draco's eyes the photograph held treasure: a beautiful spectacle of delicately crafted wood, shimmering almost gold in the dim lighting that surrounded it. Draco had seen the advert that morning as he'd watched over Potter's bed, and although he worried about the man's safety, Blaise had seen him eyeing up the ad and insisted that he go and buy it. Draco was determined not to make this a wasted trip, so he _would_ win it no matter what - whether that meant buying it from the seller or finding other means of acquiring it from a higher bidder.

"Mr. Malfoy?" a voice said, and Draco's grip on the newspaper loosened as he folded it away. A tall woman stood before him, dressed in large navy robes that complimented the military frown on her face. Draco stood from his chair, a rickety metal frame topped with a wooden seat that wasn't by any means out of place in the dark - and rather dingy - hallway he'd been instructed to wait in. In years past, these halls had been owned by the Ministry, dedicated to something or other to do with taxing, but now they were part of the new Auror department - specifically, the training levels.

"Millicent," Draco greeted cheerily, but his smile and the use of her first name only weighed her brow into a deeper scowl. She shook his hand, stern and forceful, but said nothing more. Millicent Bullstrode had certainly grown into herself, Draco observed. She would never be classified as pretty, but her previously hunched shoulders had turned square and muscular, her jaw hiking into a thick, strong shape, like a piece of armour. The one thing that had not changed a bit was her scowl. She was stern and logical in everything she did, taking the A-to-B route every time, and it was a method which, while Draco had never been one to follow it, was often quite effective when faced with an enemy that was just as stubborn.

"You're here for the Ottoman?" Millicent asked, straight to the point as always.

"Yes."

"200 Galleons and it's yours."

Draco frowned, his brow furrowing almost as violently as Bullstrode's did. "The advertisement said 170," the blonde argued, not at all deterred by the tightening of the large woman's fists by her sides. This was business, and if it required a fist fight then so be it - but Draco knew that where Millicent dominated with brute force, he was miles better with a wand.

"Things change," Millicent huffed. "I've had a lot of offers."

Draco thought for a moment, considering, with a curious look of wonder on his face. He wanted the piece of furniture and would pay any money to get it - but it would have been bad business not to haggle for a better price.

"190?" he offered, and watched as Millicent's face narrowed into determination.

"195," she returned stubbornly. "That's about as good as it's going to get."

Draco beamed. A saving of five galleons wasn't much, but it was something. "I'll take it."

Despite the successful sale, Millicent's expression didn't shift as she led her former classmate to eye up his purchase. Draco followed her to an office door and watched her open it, gliding through on feet that felt like clouds after her. The Ottoman sat in the corner of Millicent's office, speckled with dust and filling the air with a golden glow that arose from its polished surface. Draco stared like a madman, taking in at once the carvings littering its lid, sides and frame, each sculpted indent painted gold and shimmering beside the deep polished wood of its skin. He crouched before it and ran his fingers along the edge, feeling the years embedded in its wood. Pulling up its lid to glance inside, the hinges creaked with age and seemed to cry out to Draco, a solemn scream laced with the years it had suffered through. With that, Draco was eager to sign the paperwork and be done with the whole exchange.

Draco's signature swiped across the page he was presented with in a thin scrawl of black ink, and the blonde paid the money he owned - tucking away the extra hundred galleons he'd brought in case the price had been much higher than expected. Millicent grabbed the money from him in an eager swipe, and for the slightest of moments Draco thought he'd spotted a grin on the woman's face. He turned to leave and proclaim that someone would be by to collect his purchase by noon, but Millicent wasn't done yet.

"Say," she called as he was just about to announce his leave, "You got married recently, didn't you?"

"Yes," Draco replied, He assessed her tone, and noticed a defensiveness hidden slyly behind her seemingly innocent words, as though she was about to insult him. His hackles became tense, ready to pounce to his defence.

"You married Potter. The Gryffindor, the one half of us have been tracking down for the last four years." Her words, not quite a question, formed a silent accusation. Draco didn't hesitate to respond, with as much conviction as he could muster.

"The Dark Lord asked it and I obeyed."

"The Dark Lord has gone insane." Draco's breath caught just hearing the words, fearful even if they weren't his own. He'd never heard anyone say them in more than timid whispers, in rumoured tones, never so loud and with such conviction as Bullstrode did now - Was she out of her mind?

"That old man should have stepped down years ago," she continued, her rabbit hole of deceit growing large enough that Draco was afraid he'd tumble into it. "His mind is frail, and so are you. And yet you still hide behind his so-called _cause_."

Draco sensed the scorn and disapproval in the thin slits that were her eyes, and suspicion settled like an unexploded bomb at the pit of his mind. It would have taken guts to break into the Manor and even lay a finger on Potter. Any follower of the Dark Lord, no matter how deeply they hated the Chosen One, would crumble in fear at the idea of defying his wishes. Millicent, with her military combat and determination, was the perfect candidate for the break in. But was that hatred in her eyes enough to have just days ago broken into his home and slashed a permanent and potentially fatal scar onto the man he -?

No, he decided. It wasn't her. Every inch of her being yearned to have done as the intruders had, fuelled by a hate that was drilled deep into her bones. But her style of combat was too straight forwards; she would have gone all the way and killed Potter if she'd had the chance. No, the perpetrator was sly, provocative, like a cat toying with its prey. But even so, Millicent's words stung.

"I should leave," Draco announced, receiving a curt nod in response. He nodded back and glanced at the Ottoman. "I'll have that picked up at some point tomorrow." He turned sharply away and headed for the door, his robes kicking up in a flurry of cotton with every step.

"Millicent?" He turned back at the last second. The woman sent him back only an upturned eyebrow. "I know you hate him, but if you knew who did it... You would tell me, wouldn't you?"

Millicent said nothing then, and the silence strung between them like dust, fluttering in the air. But her answer, although kept unspoken, was as clear as a blaring sign, and Draco quickly got tired of waiting for her to voice it - she clearly never would. He took his leave without another word.

-TRANSITION-

Harry's stomach was filled with molten lava. It was hard to move without irritating his wound and setting off a ripple of agony that fluttered up his spine and played tricks with his vision. But despite his nurse saying he ought to be bed bound for at least a few more days, Harry couldn't bare the sight of those four bare walls for any longer.

Now he stared instead at a ceiling littered with artwork. At the slightest glance the ceiling, high above, was white. Perhaps slightly beige if you stared hard enough. But after an hour of gazing up at it and wondering what it was that made the ceiling look so strange, Harry had begun to notice tiny splashes of colour speckled across the whitewash: the faintest of yellows on the centre, shimmering almost golden, which faded into orange as it went out and morphed into a deep maroon red, all shaped in a semicircle over one side of the ceiling. The other side was stricken with blues and greens and purples, not in any concise pattern but strewn together in waves, weaving in and out of each other as though they were strung together by lace.

The colours had merged into a painting of the sun setting over an ocean, and now that Harry had seen it he couldn't bring himself to look away.

"You're straining your neck."

But of course, a certain blonde spouse of his was bound to ruin it.

Draco eased the door shut behind him as he entered, and Harry's gaze fell from the ceiling. Blue eyes met his, and the slightest smile met Draco's lips while Harry's remained expressionless. He'd hoped to evade the man for a little longer, but he guessed seeing him was inevitable.

"You should be in bed," Draco told him as his feet carried him precariously forwards. "What are you doing in here?"

"Just looking."

"At the ceiling?" Harry nodded back, as a full smile filled Draco's face with amusement. He approached Harry's armchair and stroked a hand through his dark hair. "Well now you can look at me instead."

Draco bent down to press a kiss to Harry's lips, and at first Harry tipped his head back and returned it. As irritating as Draco could be, his lips were soft and gentle, the complete contrast to the words that were often flung from his throat. Harry kissed the blonde man back and revelled in the feeling of those thin fingers combing through his messy hair, stroking against his skull. He reached to run his own fingers over Draco's hair, when his shoulders stiffened, his arm froze and fell back down to his side.

All of a sudden, the touch of Draco's skin against his was not comforting, but painful. The heat of his lips, previously warm and gentle, was now a burning pressure against Harry's, like kissing a bare blue flame. Draco's fingers seemed to be tipped with blades, sharp and piercing into Harry's skull as they scraped through his hair. Harry's whole body grew tense, and his head pressed back into the armchair. But the pressure only made his skull pound, and when he squeezed his eyes shut the pain didn't leave him. If anything, it only got worse. He couldn't take it, his skin flaring with agony in every place that Draco's skin touched his. He pushed Draco away and scrambled to the other side of the chair, eyes wide and breath stifled.

The blonde eased away, stood upright again, and his brow knotted in confusion. He searched Harry's eyes, but didn't seem to find any answers there.

"What's wrong?" he wondered. His hand reached to take Harry's instinctively, but the other man flinched away. Harry stared back at Draco, baffled; it was clear that the blonde was unaware of the pain his touch had caused. Had he really not felt that burning? It had been too painful for Harry to ignore.

"Nothing," Harry said, despite the wobble in his voice. He tried to soothe the tension in his shoulders, but his shuffling inadvertently caused Draco's eyes to become narrower, and he leant closer, inspecting Harry. His eyes were filled with concern, yet at the back of Harry's throat he could taste bile. He was convinced he'd be sick if he had to endure another second of Draco's painful touch.

"Really, Potter, what's up with you?" Draco tried to brush his palm across Harry's cheek, but the dark-haired wizard caught his wrist before he could, glad that Draco's robes covered his bare skin below.

"Please," he begged, "Don't touch me." He swallowed the sickly taste on his tongue and breathed deeply through his nose, relieved the second Draco leaned away.

But the relief didn't last. With a reluctant sigh, Draco stepped away and took a seat on the armchair that mirrored Harry's own. He dropped his head in his hands, and although the blonde made no further sound, it was clear from the heaviness of his shoulders and the way he avoided Harry's gaze that he was hurt. When he finally did glance up, his blue eyes had faded into a dull icy grey, as if all the colour had drained suddenly from his features.

Harry frowned; he didn't want this look to plague Draco's face, but how could he explain that the man's touch ignited an unbearable agony within him? It sounded crazy - and, quite frankly, it scared him. Draco only wanted to kiss Harry, to hold him as he had the night before. But whilst the thought would have been just as alluring to Harry a few minutes ago, it now made him want to hurl.

Draco didn't say anything for a long while, and Harry at first didn't feel fit to break the silence. The air became stiff, like a piece of fine china just waiting to be shattered. Draco's eyes looked up at the ceiling, gracing over the spots Harry had been staring at before, but then his eyes fell onto Harry's and stayed there, unmoving and narrowed into a look of confusion.

"Can I ask you something?" Harry asked once the silence had spun webs around them too tight for him to breathe. Draco's gaze faltered, falling away from Harry's, and he nodded.

"Hermione..." Harry stuttered, as he watched Draco's eyebrows jerk. The idea had been churning around in his head all morning, and yet now saying the words seemed impossible. "Can I see her?"

The blonde's face was flooded immediately with guilt, something Harry was sure he'd never seen the other man express before. But when his eyes flickered up to Harry's they were stern again, clouded by his usual barred walls, a prison that concealed his emotions. Yet his hands rubbed together in his lap, agitated.

"Potter..." He began, voice trailed out into a sigh. Harry's gaze dropped, knowing what he was about to say. Just as he'd feared: the answer was no.

"Forget it," he said, batting a hand dismissively through the empty air. "Don't bother. I should have known."

"I'm sorry," Draco murmured back. "I don't have a say in who visits Azkaban, and I very much doubt those who do would see kindly to letting you converse with one of your co-conspirators."

"She's not a 'co-conspirator' - she's my best friend!" Harry's eyes shot back at Draco with a burning glare, and the blonde's returned just as stern. "Maybe you don't understand that, or maybe you're just too selfish to understand that I _care_ about her!"

"It's out of my control!" Draco shot back at him, but his argument fell and his gesturing hands collapsed to his sides. He climbed to his feet and paced away, heading towards the pool table. He leaned against its edge and ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. The distance between them seemed to shed a colossal weight from Harry's shoulders, and removed the lingering bile from his throat.

"I'll ask," Draco promised, as his fingers rubbed away an ache at the back of his neck. "But I'll warn you now, I doubt any of the board will allow it." He looked back to Harry and shook his head, glancing away and then back again. "I'm sorry," he said again, his voice hushed. But Harry had already averted his gaze, staring instead at the branches of a tree battling against the wind just outside the window. He stared, trying to ignore Draco completely, but a staggering pain in his lower abdomen distracted him.

His recent wound, slashed into his stomach, flared with agony, like sharp claws were grasping at it and tearing the healing flesh open once again. Harry keeled over, clutching at his stomach with both hands. A groan slid through his teeth involuntarily, and immediately his jaw clenched around another sound as the pain worsened. Harry heard a muffled voice through the thrumming in his ears, which blurred out everything but the mind-numbing pain that was clawing through his stomach.

A hand found and gripped his shoulder, accompanied by a panicked tone. Despite the intent to help, the touch only made Harry's agony worse, adding on a sickness in his stomach that made him want to lurch across the room and away from the strange, painful, sickly aura that seemed to come with Draco's presence. He pushed the hand off of his shoulder and heard footsteps enter the room from afar, before a flurry of voices began to swirl around him.

"Harry, what's wrong? Is it the wound?" The concerned voice of Blaise Zabini piped up, as a young nurse, eager to tend to Harry's ailments, presented her wand as though it could fix anything.

"I'm fine," Harry murmured. The pain had started to fade now, reclining into a distant ache that was nothing compared to that which came with Draco's touch. The blonde stood a few feet away, seeming both miles away and way too close in the same instant. He carried with him a mix of worry and sadness on a heavy frown.

"Get off me," Harry said, shoving away a hand that came his way, a wand grasped in their fist. "I'm fine, just - Go!"

The medic wouldn't budge, ignoring Harry's protests. Beyond them, Blaise looked to Draco with a question on his brow, and the blonde nodded back immediately. With that, Blaise beckoned the medi-witch from the room and, after a last confirming glance to Draco, bowed out of the room after her.

Harry and Draco were left alone. The pain had gone, swiped out of Harry's mind. It did that, his wound. Flaring up in pain randomly, like some deadly force reminding him of the hazy memories he had of the night it had been inflicted. But one day he knew the pain would fade, and dissolve into another scar to add to his collection. The queasy, tickling feeling that stabbed at his stomach, promising pain, at the sight of Draco felt like it would never leave him.

"Harry, do you -?"

"Leave me alone," Harry blurted immediately. His breath was taunt and his fingers gripped the arms of his chair tightly. But Draco didn't seem to get it. Instead of leaving he only stepped closer.

"Harry," he uttered, as his hand reached to cup his cheek. But the dark-haired man slapped the hand away before it could get close enough to hurt. He would realise later, once the blonde was gone and he was alone, surrounded by shadows, that this moment was the first time Malfoy had genuinely called him by his first name.

But the softness in Draco's tone was snapped short by Harry's actions, and his expression turned stern. This was a side of Malfoy that was much more familiar to Harry - but that certainly didn't mean he preferred it.

"Fine," Draco snarled, his mood turned sour. "I'll go." And with that he stormed towards the door, gone in an instant. The tension in Harry's shoulders left him and he sighed. But despite the relief, the peace was tainted by guilt.

Harry leaned back into the armchair's cushions and closed his eyes, willing the solemn look that had resided in Draco's eyes to stop returning to the forefront of his mind. He wished he could see Hermione, but every time he thought of her, an image came to mind of her rotting in a cell, hungry and afraid and alone. There seemed to be nothing he could think about without feeling guilt rattle through his bones. Instead, he wiped any thought from his mind and tried to let the soft breeze through the window lull him into sleep.

-TRANSITION-

 **Three days earlier. Azkaban Prison.**

"Get up, mudblood!"

A kick jolted the collapsed body that laid feeble on the ground, but the figure didn't make any move to protect herself.

"Get UP!"

This time it was a punch straight to the side of her skull, before thick fingers grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her off the ground. The woman's eyes lulled open just enough for her to see black spots obscuring her vision. She didn't have the energy to sit up.

A final blow to the stomach made the victim's throat fill with blood that choked her for a moment of blind panic, before her head jolted to the side and she coughed up the blood, letting it splatter to the ground. She heard footsteps ease away to the other side of her cell.

"You have a visitor," the aggressive voice told her. Then they addressed someone else, who had yet to say a word. "I'll leave her to you, then."

The air was empty, silent, devoid of anything. Heat had deserted the cell, and the cold made skin tingle and hairs stand on end. The body - still collapsed on the ground with her head rested in a puddle of her own blood - shivered. The pool of blood around her skull was a patch of warmth she was glad for, but still she could sense the cold creeping over the rest of her, whilst her hair became sticky with the drying blood.

"Oh, Granger," a familiar voice sighed. "You do seem to have gotten yourself in a bit of a pickle."

Hermione's memory clicked; she recognised that voice, with its hidden smirk and patronising edge. Her eyes eased open, and her suspicions were confirmed. A shadow loomed over her, tall with dark curly hair and a crazed smile. The scar that still lingered on Hermione's arm even after all these years tingled, faint memories of the pain that had come with its infliction sparking. She could feel those dark eyes leering down on her, sly and murderous as always. There was rage building up somewhere inside her, but Hermione was too frail and weak to express it.

"Well?" Bellatrix asked. The heel of her boot tapped on the rough ground and the sound echoed. "Aren't you going to say 'hello'?"

Hermione could only gurgle, tasting more blood on her tongue. The Death Eater chuckled back.

"Your muggle parents wouldn't be very pleased if they heard their daughter wasn't showing any manners, would they?"

The hair on the back of Hermione's neck prickled and every nerve ending tightened.

"Oh, but of course," Bellatrix chuckled. "They don't even know they have a daughter, do they?"

Hermione tried to spit out an insult, but all that came was another mouthful of blood that stained her lips a deep scarlet. A spell must have uttered from the other woman's lips, but Hermione didn't hear it. The ground collapsed from beneath her and she was hurtled into the air, slamming against the wall of her cell with a force that made her head spin. A faint light illuminated the left side of her face; the window, as tall as the walls around and completely glassless. It was close. She could feel spirals of wind whirling around her, and the solemn voices of the dementors it carried whispering to her, willing her to jump. Hermione let her head lull against the wall behind her and stared out at the vast night sky, swarming with darkness. A step came up beside her, a sharp toed boot prodded at her side, and soon the breath of a whisper tickled at her ear.

"Oh, Hermione," Bellatrix sighed, and the younger woman's delirium made it seem as if her words were sincere. "You're not looking well. Do you need something to soothe your bruises? And tend to your scars?"

The woman's voice trailed off, and a finger stroked at Hermione's wrist. Her arm was discarded on the ground at her side, limp and battered, her sleeve stained crimson and still damp. She could just about feel the ice cold of the stone floor, misty with the lifeless aura of the dementors haunting it, but the scrape of Bellatrix's claw-like nails sliding against the inside of her wrist was what made her shiver. The crude word still scarred into the flesh of her arm - the one Bellatrix herself had carved - dug even deeper, until Hermione could feel the scrape of haunting memories against her bones.

"You'll never believe what they did with your Harry," Bellatrix taunted.

"Harry?" The brunette was just about able to utter in shock, and with a surge of fleeting energy she tried to turn her head. But the reserves quickly withered away, and her head crashed down onto a weak left shoulder like a falling rock. Hermione winced as a cry flew from her lips involuntarily. She blinked apart her eyelids, sticky and wet from silent tears, and a woman sat before her with a nest of dark curls. Bellatrix Lestrange chuckled from low in her throat and Hermione's heart fell with lost hope; of course, Bellatrix wasn't here for any good reason.

"Your friend is getting mar-ried!" Bellatrix chimed with a crazed smile. Her head cocked a degree to the side. "What happened to your little ginger pet? Dead, is he?"

Hermione's heart burned at the memory of Ron being shot down a month prior, his body falling lifeless to the ground and his head lulling against the concrete below. She choked on a sob, but swallowed it; she refused to crumble at Bellatrix's words.

"What a shame," the older woman continued. She sounded dazed, mindless, her thoughts fading away into a fantasy that Hermione was too drained to pay much attention to. "Are you sad? Do you miss him? Aren't you two going to be terribly alone without any Weasleys or Potters to look after you both?"

"Two?" Hermione croaked back. Although her attention had wavered more than a little, the word stuck out to her like blood splatter on snow. Bellatrix giggled like a small child once again. It was the kind of sound that echoed terribly off the stone walls around them, and drilled into Hermione's ears so painfully she was sure she could feel a thin river of blood trailing down the side of her face.

"Didn't you know?" Bellatrix mused, enjoying the confusion that fused with panic on the younger woman's features. "Maybe you're not as clever as you seem. Haven't you noticed the foetus growing steadily inside of you?"

A flat palm touched Hermione's stomach, the fingers spreading out. Even through her shirt she could feel the icy cold of the other woman's skin, but the sensation was numbed away by shock. She'd noticed a few strange symptoms recently - sickness that plagued her says and shook her awake in the middle of the night, fatigue weighing heavy on her mind and body - most of which she'd put down to hunger and lingering grief. But a _baby?_ She hadn't even seen it as a possibility until now, and with the realisation came a stabbing pain in her stomach, one generated by a feeling of neglect deep within her. Hermione cried out, and Bellatrix retracted her cold palm.

"I'm sorry," Bellatrix's voice uttered. The Death Eater's voice seemed detached from her, too sincere to be her own. "I'm sorry your child has to grow up without a father."

Hermione's abdomen was stricken by another bout of pain, and by the time the blinding feeling had faded away, the dull cell was filled only by her and the hazy memory of Bellatrix Lestrange. Hermione couldn't determine whether what she'd seen had been real or just an apparition of her deranged sanity.

Her eyes lulled into sleepy slits of brown that stared blindly out into the dark night beyond. The dementors were closer than before, and their chill wafted over Hermione's skin and left scarring goose bumps in its wake. Fatigue burned on Hermione's every muscle, willing her into sleep. She stared off thoughtlessly into the night sky until sleep finally claimed her.


	8. Chapter 8: Seeing Red

A/N: Hello again! Happy 2017! How long has it been - two months? Longer? I apologise sincerely for my absence, but I am back - hopefully until this story is finished now.

Chapter 8: Seeing Red

As the sun rose on the beginning of another day, Harry found himself trapped in bed, his heavy head and aching torso weighing him down against the mattress. The creak of a door easing open stirred him awake, and he glanced over, eyelids drooping out of tire, to witness Blaise creeping into the room. He sent a stiff smile Harry's way, then stood at his post by the door. He remained there, both still and silent enough to have been part of the building, his mouth pressed into a stubborn line. Harry sighed, realising that Blaise wasn't leaving any time soon. He had been told that Blaise was here to protect him, but there were already two guards outside the door; he hardly understood why he needed another.

Harry groaned as he sat up in bed, the faint ache of his wound stabbing at his gut. Blaise sent a questioning glance across the room, but Harry swiped away his concern with a shake of his head.

"I'm fine," Harry groaned, positioning a pillow to between his back and the bed's frame. He breathed, waiting for the pain to ease, and watched as Blaise regained the stagnant form of a statue on the other side of the bedroom. His shoulders were taunt, his gaze alert and dully menacing. He avoided looking at Harry, staring instead at the walls or out the window, his eyes occasionally dropping to inspect the floor. Harry imagined that guarding somebody 24/7 must have been a pretty boring job.

"You don't have to look so serious," Harry grumbled, still half asleep.

Blaise's gaze trailed over to him, and his shoulders loosened a little with a sigh. His eyes lulled shut as he did so, and for the slightest of moments the world seemed to hang from his eyelids. They were shaded a dull purple, the colour of a long forgotten bruise.

"You should go back to sleep," Blaise advised. "Get some rest."

"I've had plenty of rest," Harry said. "When was the last time _you_ had a full night's sleep?"

Harry's head felt as though it was inflated, filled with unwanted pressure. A knife embedded in the side of his skull penetrated each of his temples, prodding at his brain and dulling his thoughts; he hardly cared if he was overstepping his boundaries.

"What's it to you?" Blaise said, avoiding the question as his eyes narrowed teasingly in Harry's direction.

"Well, if I've got to have someone guarding me at every waking moment, I'd rather they not nod off on the job, if you don't mind."

Blaise smiled back half-heartedly, and his eyes darted back to the walls. The conversation quickly died.

Harry stared up at the ceiling for a length of time that felt like forever. He rolled his shoulders up to his ears and stretched his arms out in front of him, but his bones creaked with every movement. He didn't want to sleep, but it seemed like dreams were the only way to entertain his mind. Boredom slowly ate away at his brain cells, and every minute he stared at a wall or ceiling was another he was fearful he'd lose his mind this way. He must have sat there for an hour, letting his mind fiddle with the idea that it had been mere days since the break-in, before he simply couldn't take the "rest" any longer.

He sat up suddenly, with no care for the pain that shot through him, and swung his legs over the edge of the bed.

"Harry - what are you doing?"

Harry swayed. His head was pounding and hazy, but the feeling of his bare feet on the ice cold floor sent a chill up his spine, clearing his foggy vision. He could hear Blaise's footsteps drawing near, but he brushed away the hand that gripped his shoulder and pushed up from the bed.

"Harry, you're not strong enough," he heard Blaise argue, but his voice seemed to drift in from far away, a ghost outside his window rather than a physical body that stood just beside him.

Harry's arms quaked, and a pain racked through him, stinging as it passed his wound. He heaved himself from the bed, but gravity towed him down again. It seemed as though his body weighed a tonne - either that, or his limbs were as frail as thin twigs, ready to snap at the slightest pressure. Harry toppled forward, his legs collapsing beneath him. If not for Blaise grabbing him by the shoulders he would have hit the ground, but instead he was half-carried back onto the bed. He winced as he sat down again, Blaise's hand at his back to keep him from falling again. His wound, slashed across his stomach, throbbed with pain, and Harry gripped at the duvet and squeezed his eyes shut. Blaise watched from beside him, concern knotting his eyebrows together.

"Are you all right?" Blaise's voice was unexpectedly soft, almost nervous.

"Peachy," Harry groaned, but dropped the sarcastic tone when he glanced up and saw the look on Blaise's face. "It just hurts. It'll stop in a minute."

"I won't tell Draco about this if you don't want me to."

Harry frowned back. "What's this got to do with Malfoy?"

"He cares about you." Harry scoffed. Blaise's eyes trailed away and he sighed. "But if you're OK, then there's no point making him worry."

"I'm sure he won't lose sleep," Harry muttered back, but Blaise was persistent.

"He hides it," the man said. "But he cares more than you would think."

Harry glanced away, shaking his head; even if Malfoy cared as much as Blaise was convinced he did, it didn't change anything. It didn't erase the searing pain that burned through Harry when Malfoy touched him, which somehow didn't seem to have torn away Harry's lingering feelings for the blonde. Maybe it was better if Malfoy didn't care. It was easier to think that rather than toy with the possibility that he did.

Blaise helped him lay back down against the pillows and returned to his station at the door. Exhausted, Harry's eyes caught on the lace curtains framing a window across the room, and the white lace seemed to dance at his attention. It shifted in the wind that wafted in from the windows, and a wave ran through the fabric as though there was a restless figure standing behind it. Harry closed his eyes, but was glad to find that the curtain still lingered even behind his eyelids, flowing into his dreams and making them as calm as the light breeze that dusted through the bedroom. He tumbled into unconsciousness, welcoming the distraction from his thoughts.

-TRANSITION-

"Draco!" The shrill cry left a painful ring in Draco's ears, as Pansy Parkinson leaped back in fright at his sudden appearance. Stood just inside the door to her office, having just burst into the room, Draco appeared almost menacing. His robes were ruffled, as though thrown on in a fitted haste, and in his hand he gripped a newspaper, the pages ruffled by his murderous grip.

"How did this happen?" Draco demanded with a hitch of panic in his tone. His temper, having tethered on for too long, had burst at the seams. He was tired of putting up with rumours, and whilst being on the front page of the Daily Prophet would have otherwise put a smirk on his face, today was different.

"What are you talking about - Draco, what's happened?!"

Pansy backed away from him, trying to stand her ground as best she could. But Draco's eyes took on the fire of a dragon's breath when he was angry, turning black as his pupils engulfed the blue of his irises. Usually, managing Draco's moods was Pansy's speciality, but even she had to admit that this was a little frightening. She knew that Blaise would have been able to calm him down, but he wasn't here - he was stuck looking after Harry instead.

"Explain to me how you - as _editor_ for the Prophet - could have allowed _this_ to be printed!" Draco shot at her, brandishing the paper he held over his chest. With a critical scan of the headline printed on the front page, Pansy snatched it away to have a closer look. "Honestly, Pansy, a few critical articles I can take, I understand that your job is to be somewhat impartial. But this - this is borderline abuse!"

"Merlin..." she whispered at the crude language that littered the front page of the newspaper she edited, pasted across the front in red lettering that, due to the usual charms put on newspapers, quite literally leaped out from the page. And all of it - every sentence, every insult - was targeted at Draco and Harry. She glanced back up at Draco, whose jaw was locked in a tense grip, his hands still clutched in empty fists. "And this is on every paper?"

Draco nodded in response."Every one I saw."

Pansy threw open the door that joined her office to the next room. A murmur of voices from the bustling cubicles outside trickled into the room, but at the sight of Pansy leaning out of her office, such a deep furrow knotted in her eyebrows, the murmurs quietened into whispers. "Cho!" she called "Who authorised this article?"

The awkward frame of Cho Chang scuttled into the office, her eyes flickering towards the floor as usual. But they grew wide at the sight of the paper clutched in her boss' hand.

"That - That's my article!" she blurted with a choked cry, as her fingers grappled for the paper and her other hand clamped over her mouth in shock. "Who did th-"

Her words died as she realised the blonde man stood ahead of her, appearing mad enough to send a curse shooting her way any minute. The poor woman's knees trembled, and she noticeably flinched as Draco held his hand out to her, meaning to take back the newspaper she clutched. She sucked in a breath as she passed it back to him, and snapped her eyes away as though pretending he wasn't there.

"Cho, did you send that article off for print?"

Cho shook her head, and her bottom lip quivered in desperation as she spoke, so softly that her words were hardly audible. "No. I left it on your desk to look over yesterday evening."

"Well, Liam's just gone on holiday - and I most certainly didn't do it!" Pansy's voice grew taunt and defensive, but she took a breath and reined in her frustration. "Fine," she huffed. "Go back to work, I'll sort this out."

Cho ducked out of the room, leaving Pansy to face Draco's temper once again. But when she turned, expecting his fury to singe her with urgency, Draco's anger seemed to have fizzled, unusually short lived for someone so used to holding grudges. A mournful frown stained Draco's mouth, a piteous look scarred across his gaze as he stared back at her. His expression was the complete opposite to the gleaming smile that emulated from his photograph, printed onto the front page. Red ink scarred its surface, whilst Draco's captured face only grinned from beneath, completely unbeknown to the abuse scrawled all over it. The block red words burned into Pansy's eyes, so that even when she glanced away they still lingered in the corner of her vision, like the blurry imprint of a bright light. She reached out to pry the newspaper from her friend's murderous grip, and gave it a stubborn tug when he refused to let it go.

"I'll fix this," she promised, placing a hand on his arm. She saw him refrain from shrugging her hand off, and a smile ghosted over her mouth. "Go home."

Draco scoffed at her suggestion. "Why would I do that?"

"Harry is still recovering; he needs you."

"He doesn't want to see me," Draco argued in a weak murmur, fixing the fold of his robes, which were of course already pristine.

"Of course he does. Now go, and let me deal with all this." She stared him down, knowing that he couldn't argue any longer. Draco looked back, but Pansy's insidious gaze would win any staring contest. With a reluctant shrug, Draco headed for the door, his eyes following the grain of his footsteps as he went.

Pansy's hand had reached for her wand before Draco had even rounded the next corner, and with a flick of her wrist the office door slammed shut and the newspaper was ironed out on the carpet before her. She'd noticed something peculiar the moment Draco had presented her with the paper, a familiarity outside of the Daily Prophet's usual font and the faces of Draco and Harry smiling stiffly in the shadow of its main headline. The handwriting that stained scarlet over the greyscale text below - she'd seen that script before. On the letters he sent her, the bills signed, the tiny notes that littered the pantry door, and all in the same elegant font that now burned insults into the page before her. But no - it had to be a mistake.

Pansy routed through the drawers on either side of her desk with a desperate sense of urgency, her fingers too anxious and jittery to cast a spell that would retrieve it for her. At the sight of the smooth script that danced across the envelope in the form of her office address, she was sure she missed a breath, and her fingers grasped the paper as though it would snap out of existence if she dared to let go.

She darted back to where the bleeding newspaper was flattened against the floor and held the envelope up beside it - and in an instant of realisation her heart plummeted to the ground.

"No," she murmured to herself, voice solemn and weighed down by disbelief. "Not Blaise."

-TRANSITION-

Draco was already pent up with rage when he returned to the Manor, and upon finding the door unguarded, he burst into the lounge without a moment of hesitation. His palm slammed against the door's surface and it swung back against the frame as he stepped through, shattering the silence trapped inside.

"Potter?" he called, and a dark head shifted from an armchair faced the other way. Flames lit the room from the fireplace, and Harry's eyes appeared an even more vivid shade of green when he leant over to look Draco's way. They widened briefly, then flattened into a scowl as Harry turned away again.

Draco's whole body turned stiff at the sight of that scowl, and his mouth ran suddenly dry. He longed to see Potter - it was a stifled desire, because he hadn't lied to Pansy; Potter really showed no want to see him. If anything, the dark haired man rejected each and every effort Draco had made to stir up any conversation or physical contact. It was as though Potter was repelled by him. Yet, the thought of red ink smeared over the younger man's photograph only reminded Draco of Potter's bloodstained skin after the break-in, and the thought that the Boy Who Lived was fragile enough to bleed that much scared him. Draco had to see him, no matter how much Potter despised him being there. He'd even suffer through the blinding urge to stroke Potter's dark locks, if it meant that his worries for the man's well-being would be soothed.

"Where's Blaise?" Draco choked through the ball in his throat.

"I don't know. Coffee break I guess."

Cautiously, Draco rounded the armchair and stood by the fire, gazing down at Potter. The other man avoided his gaze. How Draco longed to curl up beside him and just stare at Potter's face. Even if his green eyes never met his, staring off as they did now, pretending that Draco was invisible - Draco would have snapped up the opportunity. He wanted to watch Potter's cheeks flush in the heat, and witness the yellow glow of the fire become more and more prominent on Potter's face as the sun set around them. But he kept his limbs locked where they were, not straying another inch closer for fear of Potter shoving him away again.

"How are you?" Draco asked, only to receive a long stab of silence in response.

"Fine," Potter murmured back eventually. "You can go back to Tom and let him know that his horcrux is perfectly safe."

"That's hardly why I -" Draco's words quickly fizzled into a sigh; There was no point even trying.

As Draco turned away, defeated, the door swung open and Blaise appeared. His eyebrows jerked at the slightly unexpected sight of his friend, confused by Draco's solemn frown. But before he could take more than a step into the room, Draco had already beat him into action, heading towards him with a shake of his head. Blaise sent a questioning glance his way.

"We'll talk outside," Draco muttered, and Blaise followed him out the door without question. There was another guard now stationed outside. He gave the two men a glance, his eyes straying on Draco's as though waiting for some kind of order.

"Fetch me Potter's wand," Draco told the guard, as an idea budded in his mind. "It should be kept in the dungeons... But make sure it's clean before you bring it to me."

"Yes, sir," he said with a stark nod and rushed off to leave the two friends alone in the hallway.

"His wand?" Blaise questioned once the guard had disappeared around the far corner. "What's that about? Don't you trust me?"

"Of course I do," Draco dismissed with a huff. "I just thought the freedom of having his wand nearby might make Potter a little happier."

Blaise looked unsure. "Do you really think that's a good idea?"

Draco appeared thoughtful for a moment. He nodded. "I trust him." He surprised himself with the remark, but it was true. After everything, he somehow knew that if given the chance, Harry wouldn't just leave.

"Is he still...?" Blaise didn't even need to finish his sentence before Draco sighed, a hand raising to rub the frustration from his forehead. He nodded solemnly.

"Yes, Potter is still as bitter and reproachful as yesterday."

Blaise sighed, and his arms folded over his chest. "I thought he would have warmed up to you a bit by now,"

"No more so than I did," Draco muttered. "The night before he was injured, we... Spent the night together. I thought he enjoyed it, but ever since then he seems to hate me even more." The blonde's feet shuffled in the uncomfortable silence, and the conversation seemed to be fading from his attention, dominated instead by the memory of that night, when he'd faded off into sleep with Potter's arms laced around his waist.

"No, I don't think he does," Blaise countered. "I don't think he hates you. But it's almost like he's deliberately trying to avoid you."

"Because he hates me. If I touch him he looks back at me as though I've just vomited at his feet."

Blaise still looked unsure. "Well it might help if you were here more often. Where have you been all morning?"

"Speaking with your delightful wife," Draco explained. "There's been an explosive mishap with the press, a bit of backlash that has turned out rather badly for mine and Potter's publicity."

"What happened? Some kind of protest?"

Draco sighed. He could hardly think of a way in which to describe the newspaper he'd seen that morning, plastered onto the Manor's front gate like some kind of advertisement, accusing him of too many crimes to name.

"Let's just say there are some people who would rather see Potter and I dead than married," Draco said. "Pansy's trying to still the rest of the press."

"And she will," Blaise assured. "She's good at her job."

There suddenly appeared a softness to Blaise's gaze that Draco had noticed once or twice before as he spoke about Pansy, the sort of look that made the blonde wonder whether Blaise felt more for his wife than just platonic friendship. Of course, Draco was hardly shy about his thoughts on the subject; he'd enquired with Blaise about his feelings many times. But with every attempt Blaise had quickly dismissed the idea that he and Pansy would ever have a real romantic relationship outside of what the public saw.

A clatter of footsteps presented the arrival of another man, and the guard re-entered from around the corner, a thin, stick-like object clutched in his hand. Draco's temper soared at the sight, and he advanced on the guard and snatched the wand from his hand.

"Be careful with it!" he snapped in outrage. "Storming around with it like that, it's bound to break!"

The man cowered, his gaze lowering in defeat, but a strong hand clutched Draco's shoulder before he could hurl another insult at the man.

"Draco," Blaise warned, with a tone like steel, that cuffed him up and dragged him back to sanity. Black ink on faded white paper, smeared with red marks, burned behind his eyelids, but one insignificant fight wasn't about to tear apart every copy of the Daily Prophet in the country.

Shrugging out of Blaise's grip with a huff that did little to sooth his anger, Draco scored one last glare at the guard. "Stay out here," he said as he hastily fixed his ruffled cuff and re-entered the room, with Blaise automatically close behind.

-TRANSITION-

Upon entrance, Harry was still sat comfortably in his armchair by the fire, one eye on the flames and the other watching the door. He wished he could dive into the fire, feel the flames turning a stark green around him and be transported to somewhere else - anywhere else would do. But instead he was stifled by the lingering eyes that constantly followed him, all the while trapped by the weakness of his body. Even if he'd been able to move around without buckling in pain, he would have had no more freedom with Blaise lingering at the door every time he glanced up. The Manor had begun to feel like just another prison to him - and, quite frankly, he'd preferred his cell in the dungeons.

As the door swung open and eased shut behind two entering figures, a tension gripped Harry by the gut. He could sense Malfoy's presence even without turning around, could feel him darting closer in the swelling pain that made his insides toss and turn, restless. His eyes lulled shut, willing the two approaching men to be hurled out of the room away from him, so that he could enjoy a little quiet, a little longer without any more pain. Harry could feel his skin tightening, his limbs wishing to curl in on themselves and escape that deadly ache aiming to propel him away from Draco Malfoy.

"Potter, are you awake?"

Malfoy's tone was unusually gentle. It was something Harry rarely heard, and for a split second he wondered if perhaps everything would be OK if he could just listen to that voice whisper to him forever. But the sound of Malfoy's voice battering against his eardrums, no matter how soothing, made Harry's stomach churn with agony, and his eyelids squeezed together even tighter. He knew that his body would writhe with hot pain again if he opened his eyes, but Malfoy couldn't be ignored, his voice drilling at Harry's temples.

"Potter?" Harry couldn't keep his eyes shut for any longer. A familiar blonde darted into his vision, crouched down in front of him. A hand reached to gently touch Harry's knee, but he flinched away. "You look pained. Are you alright?"

"Fine," Harry hissed through clenched teeth. But with every breath he could feel an insistent pull from the bottom of his spine towing him further back into the sofa, a few precious inches further away from Malfoy. A look of confusion flickered across the blonde's features, but he didn't pose any pressing questions. Instead he rose to his feet and his gaze trailed away from Harry's, finally allowing the dark haired man to breathe a little steadier again. Malfoy sat down on the sofa opposite Harry's worn armchair, and in the corner of his vision, Blaise could be spied watching from the door.

"I've got something for you," Malfoy said. Harry glanced over to him and noticed a thin piece of dark wood balanced between the man's fingers. A wand, he reasoned. He didn't recognise it as his own at first, assuming it was Malfoy's. Harry said nothing, bowing his head to stare back at the fire.

Malfoy sighed. "I didn't realise you'd kept it. I thought perhaps it had been lost, that you would have snapped it in half and thrown it off a building or something. I never would have guessed you kept it for yourself."

Harry glanced up and found Malfoy's gaze assessing his, brow low and curious. Harry's attention flickered down to the wand in his grasp, and saw that it wasn't the same shade of dark wood that he'd seen gripped in Malfoy's hand recently, but a slight shade darker. Nor did Malfoy's recent wand have the same sharp markings that, in this wand, jutted out and left coarse bruises if gripped to hard. This instrument didn't end in a sharp point as Malfoy's current wand did, but was blunt and rigid, as though the end had been sliced off to leave a cylindrical tip. The wand Malfoy had been armed with these last few days was nowhere near as familiar as this one to Harry, and yet the thin piece of wood fit between Malfoy's fingers now as though he had wielded it all his life.

"This is my old wand," Malfoy said. "You took it from me that night in seventh year - well, after we'd both left Hogwarts. I never saw it again, I had to get a new one." Blue eyes glimpsed up at Harry through long eyelashes, that shimmered a pale shade of gold in the light of the fire. "Why did you keep it?"

Harry looked away from Malfoy and back at the fire, closing his eyes to let the warmth of the flames flood over his eyelids. Even so, he could feel the prick of Malfoy's gaze, tickling at the edge of his senses.

"My wand was shattered that night," Harry said. "I didn't really have the means to get a new one... So I just started using it. You can have it back; it's never worked properly for me." He was lying; the wand, although it hadn't been perfect at first, had begun to warm up to him in recent months.

But Malfoy shook his head, holding out the wand to Harry. "Keep it. I'm a different person now than I was back then. It's likely to be more suited to you now, since you've used it for so long." He tossed the wand into Harry's lap when he didn't take it, and stood up to pace back around the sofa.

Harry's fingers grappled with the wand, and it quickly settled into the same comfortable grip in which he'd held it every day for the past four years. At first the wand had been a nuisance, resisting him in even simple spells. But as of late, in the last year or so, the two had found a rhythm that each could agree to. The wand reminded him of Malfoy in some ways - stubborn to begin with, but over time...

Harry's features scrunched up in confusion as his fingers trailed over the wand's surface. "I can _keep_ it?"

"Yes, that's what I said."

"But... Aren't you worried I'm going to escape?"

Malfoy chuckled. "No," he said, his footsteps pacing around the back of Harry's seat. "You won't be able to while Blaise is around, and he isn't going anywhere."

Harry almost smiled, pleased with the feeling of a wand in his grip once again. He angled a glare at the fire and turned the wand in the same direction. With a hiss, the flames dissolved into dust, smoke rising from the remains. A flick of Harry's wand later and the fireplace was alive with flames yet again, these ones blaring an electric blue that made the room glow with the same vivid colour. Then Harry grinned, forgetting the smug blonde still lingering. He felt like a child, playing with magic for the first time.

"Careful," came a voice from right behind him, and yet again the fire died out as Harry glanced away. Malfoy stood above him, his arms rested on the back of the chair as he dully smiled. "You wouldn't want to get too carried away."

The blonde leaned closer, and Harry was sure that any second their lips would collide. An instinctive part of him wished to lean in closer, but before he could act his abdomen exploded in pain as he feared it would, and an internal force jerked him away. Harry's eyes found the floor as he struggled to catch a breath that wasn't there, and behind him he could sense Malfoy stalking away, deterred by Harry's reaction.

By the time Harry looked up again, Draco was gone. In fact, the room was empty, devoid even of Blaise's ever present shadow. With a stifled cry, Harry's head fell into his waiting palms, and he clawed at his forehead as though he would be able to tear away the instinct within him that kept pushing Malfoy away.

He didn't want this.

There seemed to be an battle waging inside him, driving a nail between his emotions and his sanity. Seeing the sheen of rejection fresh and painful in Malfoy's eyes every time they were anywhere near each other was torture. He could neither fight the pain that seared through him in Draco's presence, nor give in to it for the guilt that plagued him every time his gaze detached from the blonde's. There was something about that painful look in Malfoy's eyes that made Harry care more about him than he would have thought possible a few years ago. It was a strange feeling, unfamiliar.

And yet, the pain now seemed to be crawling into his mind and taking over his rational sense. With every wanton thought that came to mind concerning Malfoy, his whole frame was engulfed in flame. It felt as though his innards were crumbling into dust from the inside out, and his muscles contracted as if he'd been belted in the stomach by a Cruciatus curse. It was slowly eating away at him, killing him. Even the slightest of thoughts concerning Draco brought about pain - even just knowing that the wand had once been gripped in Malfoy's fingers.

Harry held his wand in the palm of his hand and felt it cutting into his skin like a dagger. He knew it wasn't just the jagged markings that jutted out from its surface. It was the fractured remains of Draco's magic left in the wand like sprinkled ashes from all those years ago when the blonde had used it. The fragments jabbed at Harry as though he was touching the man's skin.

Harry's fingers trembled. With every prolonged second that he held the wand his flesh felt like it was burning, scorching so hot that he could feel his skin peeling away. He hated himself for it, but there was no other way. Panic overcame him, and Harry hurtled the wand into the fire before him with a sharp breath. Silent and numb from trying to withhold tears, Harry watched it drown in the hungry flames.

-TRANSITION-

A short, sharp scream stabbed Hermione's ear drums as she tumbled out of sleep - or, at least, what she thought of as sleep. Consciousness and dreams felt like parallels, separated only by a thin, invisible veil. Forever she seemed to be trapped in an endless limbo, walled in by darkness and locked into place by the cold, blinding kiss of the dementors that soared by.

One of them was close now; she could sense its leering figure just metres away. Hermione pried her heavy eyelids apart and, camouflaged amongst the dark stone, a shadowed figure bent over a man. The wizard's skin was ghostly pale, the hazy blue of his veins visible through its translucent surface. A gnarly grey beard sprouted like a weed from his chin, and his skin hung off him in heavy wrinkles. It was strange; Hermione was sure that just days ago he'd appeared much younger.

The dementor crouched lower, and a ghostly hand curled like ribbon around the man's thin throat, pinning him to the wall behind. The man, previously dulled by the same insane fatigue as Hermione, became suddenly alert, his eyes flying wide open and his mouth gaping around a scream. He called out, but the muffled cry was cut short by the dementors cold, deadly tendrils engulfing his features in darkness.

It was the kind of sight that stunned a person, scarring the image onto their mind. Hermione would have turned her head if she'd possessed the energy to do so, but she'd seen this picture too many times before: By now, it was printed onto her vision like a stain, a deep set scar that she could feel throbbing away as she watched another pleasant memory leave the man opposite her, installing another wrinkle into his face. She'd watched this before, but even still the fear it brought to her was like none other, chilling her to the bone with every second that her eyes glassed over the black silk of the dementor's inky cloak.

After a moment, the man went limp. The chilling white of his flesh and the stillness of his frame made him appear as close to death as the living could get, but his chest still flickered with the spark of remaining life trapped beneath. The dementor's grip loosened from around his neck, and a heavy head lulled onto weak shoulders.

The creature then turned its attention on Hermione. Its form twisted, turning in her direction and setting its dark solemn gaze on her. Hermione's breath died at the back of her throat and her whole frame stiffened. The shadowed features bored into her memories as she stared, and the dementor looked menacingly back at her. It hadn't even touched her, yet just the sight of its deathly silhouette invaded her mind and replaced any hope she'd conjured up. Hope that it would turn a blind eye and leave her; hope that someone would burst into the room and provide her with the energy to fight it; hope that the child that currently resided within her stomach, unaware of the world around, would be OK. All hope left her as the dementor loomed near. Her wishes dispersed in the air, stolen by the dementor's heavy, almost mechanical breaths. It was that cold, dark feeling that kept her here, the reason - other than the heavy chains and long fall from the tower - that prisoners of Azkaban rarely ever escaped alive. Because once that hopelessness settled in, convincing her that any attempt at escape would be in vain, the will to live began to slowly wither away.

The piercing grip of ghostly fingers curled around her shoulders, and Hermione shook with fear. Its face, just a rotting naked skull, seemed to open up and moved closer, its hollow eye sockets pouring into hers - and then that whispering sound encompassed her ears and the creature began to tear away her memories.

Her vision blurred, toppling into an internal maze of her happiest memories. One moment she was stood in the stands of the Quidditch pitch back at Hogwarts, as Harry flew by on a broomstick made of gold. He called out to her and waved, and Hermione grinned back, but the next second her friend was plummeting to the ground and hit the grass below as just a heap of broken bones. Hermione cried out but her voice was lost in a dark mist, clouding her vision again and tossing her into another world.

She blinked and was stood in a forest, surrounded by giants made of bark. The cold chill of winter stung her eyes, and Ron had his arms tied around her waist. She beamed, even though somewhere in her subconscious she knew what was coming. Ron's strong gaze stared back at her, filled with confusion and hurt. She only wished she could say goodbye, but her throat was sewn closed. Her hand idly reached to sweep the ginger locks from his face, but then he was hit by a sudden jolt and his features contoured into pain.

And she was in those woods just outside Hamburg again, thrown in the opposite direction to Ron and watching from what seemed like miles away as a spell hit him and a knife teared through his torso, severing his organs and thoroughly stamping out his life. Hermione rushed towards him as she had that night, but her steps were just patters of rubber against dirt, nowhere near quick enough to make a difference. The soft autumn leaves dragged her back as she cried out his name. And all the while she knew: he was dead. She was alone.

A cold sensation ran through her, like a part of her soul was being tugged away, stolen by dark, grappling hands and crushed in a tight, shadowed fist. She wanted to sob, but all her tears had dried up along with the pleasant memories that had been brutally snatched from her.

The world was silent, and Hermione wondered if perhaps her will to live had fizzled and died within her, stilling the shallow beating buried beneath her ribcage. But the gruff voice she heard then sounded nothing like an angel of Heaven, and not quite dark enough to be any kind of devil. The voice that found her ears was real, raw - some might even say it was _human_. This man, however, was only half way there.

"Get away!" he barked, and Hermione's legs crumbled beneath her as they found the floor again, her neck released from the dementor's grip. In its wake were cold indents, as though fingers made of ice had been drilled into her skin. They craved warmth, but a familiar paralysis had her unable to move.

"Go on! Leave!" But the creature hadn't left yet. Icy tendrils streamed from Hermione's skin, like scars that kept her ever in its grip. An eerie moan rang through the air, hoarse and stinging to human ears. Then, those same lingering cords snapped and the dementor was sucked away, diving out into the night sky.

The brunette, left paralysed and drained, drew icy breaths. The air in this place always seemed so cold, as though any warmth had been stolen, sent quaking away in all directions. Yet, although Hermione's eyes were closed, she could sense the fragile warmth of a figure standing over her, and an instinctual urge forced her arms to push her from the wall. Cold had become the worst torture, and the tempting warmth was like a drug to the desperate surface of her skin.

A chuckle hovered through the air and so did the warmth of a heated breath.

"Wake up." The same voice was now quieter, but just as sharp and assertive in tone. "Open your eyes and look at me."

The rasping whisper met Hermione's ears and her eyes flew open at a sudden jolt of energy that hit her. Brandished with just a lick of warmth, she had become alert, her vision sharp and her hands grappling to push her from the cold stone wall behind. The cold was more prominent, biting at her skin. She scampered from the wall, a paranoid skirt for freedom. But when her hands found a wide gap in the wall to her left, a gaping hole that lead out into the night, panic scorched through her and she grabbed for the icy stone. Another step and she would have stepped out from the tower and plummeted to her death. She hugged the stone wall, but her feet slipped on the icy floor. She scrambled for grip in desperation - any second, she was going to fall.

But a hand took a firm hold of her arm an hauled her back into the cell. Her breath hitched as he drew her closer, and she latched onto his chest instinctively, grappling onto his warmth. But when she glanced up at his face, the sight of narrow eyes and a husky grin had her darting from his grip. She backed away from him and let out a shrill cry.

Fenrir Greyback only laughed, watching her with an intense glare. "Don't scream, or else we'll be interrupted."

Hermione's quaking fingers found a wall behind her and hooked her fingertips around the edges of a grey block of stone. The werewolf stalked after her, slowly backing her up against the wall's cold surface until her whole back - from crown to heels - was dented into the rock behind. Hermione suddenly didn't mind the cold, nor the terrifying abyss that accompanied it in the corner of her eye, so long as she could distance herself from the sharp cunning in that gruesome grin, filled with teeth that were speckled with scars of all the murder he'd committed.

"Stay away from me," Hermione demanded futilely as his palms found the rock beside her shoulders, entrapping her between his arms. She could smell the scent of blood on his breath as he exhaled right over her face, like a rabid dog sniffing out an unfamiliar new creature.

"Why?" his ragged tone replied, low and grumbling in the back of his throat. "We're just about to have a chat... Perhaps I have an offer to make you."

Hermione's back stiffened, her shoulder blades sliced even further into the rock behind them. Fenrir Greyback attacked children, she recalled, and unwillingly the flat of her palm found her stomach. She could practically see the clockwork of the werewolf's thoughts as they twisted and turned in his mind, concocting some devilish plan, and in an instant his curious gaze shifted to accompany a murderous grin.

"A child?" he wondered aloud. "Even better."

Hermione's hand jutted out in protection at the words, wishing they were clutched around the familiar wooden handle of her wand. But instead her knuckles met a fleshy surface, and were left feeble against the crushing grip that took her hand a second later.

"I have a proposition for you, Miss Granger," Fenrir gnarled through barred teeth. His glowing green eyes were just about visible in the shadowed air, moonlight flickering from them and casting an eerie glow on their irises. "I can get you out of here."

Hermione's frame stiffened, stilled from her erratic squirms. Her plight for freedom was put on pause; there was no falsity in Fenrir's gaze. Cunning perhaps, but the kind that any sensible person wanted to be on the same side as. Maybe she had made a grave misjudgement, but she couldn't help the spark in her curiosity that rose from a single second's analysis of that strangled tone on Greyback's coarse tongue.

"What do you mean?" she demanded. She found, despite her best efforts to sound strong, her voice was hoarse and strained.

Fenrir scoffed. He shuffled closer, his body inches from hers. Hermione's shoulder blades twitched, legs itching with the desperate want to get away. "I mean exactly what I say: I can get you out of this prison."

Suspicion quickly made its nest on the brunette's brow, weighing down heavily on her narrowed gaze. Fenrir Greyback offering her an escape plan? The icy stone walls must have been getting to her, leaking through her chattering jaw and aching temples to invade her sanity, mess with her imagination. This couldn't be happening... And yet when she peered up at the werewolf before her there was no mistaking his presence, large and posturing, with his steamy breath wafting over her features, tinted with the stench of fresh blood.

"Why would you - ?"

A tight fist crushed her wrist then, squeezing from her throat a shrill scream. But then another hand clamped over her mouth, stifling the sound in the fleshy pad of Fenrir's palm. The back of her skull slammed into the stone wall, bringing with it a cold shot of pain. Fenrir grilled her with a deathly stare, his eyes glowing.

"I told you not to scream." he snarled. "And I don't have time for questions. Do you want my help or am I wasting my time?"

With a gulp to shatter any sobs that might have arose from her chest, Hermione's head moved in a quaky nod. Fenrir's eyebrows jerked upwards.

"And if I remove my hand you won't cry out?"

Hermione shook her head, and was aghast with relief as Fenrir withdrew his grip on her jaw. But he didn't move away. His hand remained clamped over her wrist, pinning it to the wall above her head. She tried to yank it away, but he only gripped tighter. There was no escaping him.

"You are a stubborn one, aren't you, Miss Granger?" He murmured the words, as though there was something intriguing, almost _attractive_ about it. The idea sent a shiver down Hermione's spine.

"What do you want?" she demanded, trying to keep her voice from quivering in fright.

"There is one catch to this help I'm offering."

Hermione scoffed. "Of course there is." But she wanted out of this hell, if not for herself, then for the sake of the child stowed away at the pit of her stomach. If this was her only option, she'd be forced to take it. "What kind of catch?"

"A favour," Fenrir said. "Soon, I'm going to tell you to do something - not anything huge, just a small favour - and I need you to do it, without any more of your ridiculous questions." He paused, and the dark green slits of his eyes became curious, pondering how she would react. "Do we have a deal?"

Hermione squeezed her eyes closed and willed herself to think not only of herself but her baby. A deal with a man like Greyback could never end well, but there was no other choice at her disposal. The cold was getting to her, and if she was disturbed by the dementors' kiss, then she could only imagine the trauma of the growing baby in her womb, currently barely anything more than a collection of cells. She had to leave this place.

With a quaking breath, Hermione nodded courtly. "Yes."

Fenrir's grin turned suddenly menacing. "Good."

His free hand grabbed her other wrist and rose it above her head to sit with the other, and the one hand that had been there already held both wrists in one shackle-like grip. He leant forward, and the tight gap between their bodies was stifled by his abrasive presence. His hips collided with hers, ramming her back up into the wall, so that his crotch was pressed aligned with hers. She was trapped against the wall, motionless, and unable to control either the pounding of her heart or that which thrummed beneath her stomach.

Without a word of warning, Fenrir's hand slid over her stomach, and his fingers grappled at her breast with the same force and assertion as any other action he took. Hermione was at a loss for words. She would have shoved him away, kicked him between the legs, or broken her vow not to scream, but she was stunned into paralysis that she couldn't seem to shake, for all her might. He squeezed the flesh in his palm once, enough to hurt, and then chuckled beneath his breath as though the whole thing was just a joke to his sick, perverted mind. Thankfully, he took his hand away and plunged it into his back pocket, retrieving some kind of instrument.

"W-What are you doing?" Hermione stuttered, finally able to take a hold of her voice. "Get away from me!"

Fenrir was hardly perturbed by her efforts, he only swiped away the hair from her neck and brought whatever was in his hand closer, resting it against her collar bone. She could see now that it was a syringe, filled to the brim with some kind of thick, red substance that seemed to be staining its insides to scarlet.

"What is that?" Hermione breathed. Her words ran dry with fear. Fenrir only chuckled.

"Oh, this?" He bit of the cap and spat it out over his shoulder. As the plastic fell and tapped against the stone ground beneath, a drop of scarlet welled from the end of the needle. "I've taken a leaf from the muggles. It's interesting, how a werewolf's saliva, on the night of the full moon, can infect another person just from entering their bloodstream. It begs the question: Would blood do the same? Because if so, all someone would have to do to infect others would be to collect werewolf blood, inject it into a non-lycanthrope the night before a full moon, and watch as that tiny vial of blood made the moon turn them too."

A prick of sudden pain jolted Hermione, and a cold surge entered the bloodstream at her neck. She knew that he'd injected her with the blood - _his_ blood, but she could only guess. She could practically feel it swimming in her veins, pulsing with her own blood and mixing in with it. She almost whimpered, terrified by the prospect that what he was uttering to her was true - he was turning her into a _werewolf_. Her breath hitched in her throat, threatening to heighten into a fully-fledged sob - it scared her. Before she knew what she was doing, she had been startled into action, squirming furiously from his grip.

"No," she cried. "No - stop it! I don't want it!"

Both of Fenrir's hands grasped her sides then, abandoning their efforts to keep her arms at bay. His hands roamed at her small frame, fingers digging into the flesh at her hips and towing her towards him by the back of her thighs. She could feel the swelling growth at his crotch, throbbing with heated desire, and she sucked in a gasp. With her arms now freed, she gripped her hands together and smacked both elbows into the side of Fenrir's skull. He let go, and she fell back against the wall. In an instant, her knee had kicked upwards, and slammed in between his legs.

Fenrir staggered back, groaning, but when he looked up, a shrewd smile was still spread across his cunning features. "It's too late," he told her. "You are what you are now. You are what _I_ am."

"Don't touch me again!" Hermione cried, scampering away to the other side of the cell, where he couldn't reach her. Her skin felt slick with grime knowing that he'd touched her, knowing that he'd been _aroused_ at the sight of her trapped by pain and fright, and had loved the feel of her restrained beneath his weight. The idea made her sick to her stomach.

"Hm," Fenrir laughed. He didn't come any closer, but his presence was so demeaning it seemed to fill the whole cell. "We'll see about that. Don't forget our deal."

Hermione was enthralled with a sudden bout of rage. "I mean it!" she thundered. "Don't ever come near me again!"

But in a swirl of darkness he was gone, and so was her anger. Yet again Hermione was left alone with her regrets.

A/N: I was a little unsure about that last scene and whether it was too violent… Or not violent enough? When I first wrote the scene Fenrir came across a little too nice to be realistic, and I doubt he would take no for an answer. Let me know what you think, as always, and the next chapter will be up soon.


	9. Chapter 9: A Monster

Chapter 9: A Monster

"Where'd you get that from?"

From the look riddled onto Harry's face, anybody would have thought he'd seen a ghost. Draco watched with a cocked eyebrow, easing the door shut behind him as his levitation spell lowered a shallow silver bowl onto the bedside table.

"What do you mean?" Draco said. With a toss of his wand another few candles flickered to life, casting a yellow glow over the room. Potter squinted. He sat in an armchair beside the window, reliant on the white light gleaming in from the lamppost stood outside. Beyond, the sky was navy blue, speckled with silver pin pricks and one shimmering full moon. "I bought it - I don't recall where from - but why would you care -?"

"That's Dumbledore's," Potter spluttered, wincing as he sat forward. "It was in his office at Hogwarts, how did you...?"

Draco laughed and Potter's words quickly trailed away. "Merlin, you can be dense, can't you? Did you really think Dumbledore's penseive was the only one? Granted, they're hardly common, but I run an _antiques_ store."

Potter looked away and his eyes met the carpet. Draco leaned past him and yanked the drapes around the window shut, blocking out the vivid night sky.

"I came across this beauty about a year ago," he explained. "It's very powerful magic... I think it might help you."

Potter didn't even bother rolling his eyes. Instead he closed them, and rested his head against the back of the armchair. "How do you figure that?" he murmured.

Harry hid it, but Draco recognised pain beyond the sarcastic facade Potter wrapped around his shoulders. Draco had lived that lie before, not allowing the world to see any of the agony that scarred his skin. He frowned, thoughts strung with worry. According to the medi-witch Draco had spoken to that morning, Harry wasn't getting any better. In fact, over the past couple of days he'd been deteriorating, and as the blonde watched him now, he could practically see the energy draining from Potter's skin, the emerald light of his eyes clouded by exhaustion. Draco had been spending more time at home par Blaise's advice, checking in on Potter as often as they both could bare. But even so, every time he saw the other man, the bruises beneath Potter's eyes seemed to darken even more. And there was nothing anything he could do to stop it; even the medi-witches struggled to pin point what was causing his ailments.

"I need you to remember what happened the night you were attacked," Draco said, to which a look of deep set pain cursed Potter's expression. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, fingers digging into his palms as though they were trying to claw away the memories that haunted him. Draco's own fingers tingled with an itch that resided beneath his skin, urging him to stroke away the tension that was knotted in the other man's shoulders. But considering the response he'd gotten before, he instead clutched his hands together in front of him, each cuffed by the other's shackling grip.

"I told you," Potter said. "I don't remember anything. It's all a blur, just voices."

Draco shrugged. "The voices might help. At least let me have a look." _Let me share the burden,_ he willed, because although he couldn't see what it was, there was something surrounding that night that had dug deeper than any physical wound - something that made Harry suddenly want to push Draco away again, and was now beginning to make him ill.

Potter stared back at Draco with wide eyes, his mouth creating a flat line. His eyes held knotted secrets that the blonde couldn't even begin to unravel, before they flickered away again. Potter's expression looked pained, but at last he nodded his head, albeit a little reluctantly.

Without another word, Draco flicked his wand towards the bedside table and the penseive hovered its way over to where Potter sat, settling down ahead of him. The man leaned forward slightly, the tension of his frame making his discomfort radiate from him, and the emerald of his eyes reflected in the blue, rippling water made them appear a milky shade of turquoise.

"Here," Draco said, offering Potter his wand handle first. Potter stared at it, just as he had stared at his own wand as Draco handed it back to him. Merlin knew why he'd decided to toss the wand into the fire within minutes of having been given it. Nothing Potter did seemed to make any sense.

Potter flinched as he took the wand, holding it precariously between two fingers. It may as well have been a piece of hot coal. Eyes squeezed shut, Potter pressed the wand's sharp tip to his temple. Every muscle stood rigid as he focused on that one memory.

Draco watched, eyes latched onto the trail of light Potter drew from his skull. At first it was tethered to him, but with a sharp tug it broke, and hung from the end of his wand like a limp piece of string. It shone a silvery shade of blue, brighter than the liquid in the penseive, and its light illuminated Potter's face as the man gazed at his own memory, this time turning his irises a dreary shade of blue.

Waving like tree leaves in the wind, the floating memory reached out for the penseive and sunk underneath its surface the moment Potter guided it downwards, his gaze fixated until it was just a shadow in the shallow depths. Potter looked fearful, his face stricken to a pale shade. He handed back Draco's wand without so much as a glance in his direction, all the while ensuring that their fingers didn't touch.

"Thank you," Draco uttered. "I'm not entirely sure how this thing... _works,_ exactly. Whether it requires skin contact, or -"

"You submerge your face in the water," Potter offered, his voice hoarse. "Then you enter the memory."

Draco nodded. Potter had, after all, been aware of the penseive at Hogwarts; perhaps he'd used it before. If any Hogwarts student had been shown a pool of memories it was undoubtedly Harry Potter.

Draco stooped down and placed his hands on either side of the penseive. Above, he could sense Potter's narrow eyes boring down on him, but glancing up for even a second would have caused those beautiful green irises to flinch away. It pained him to see that. Instead, Draco lifted the hair from his forehead without another word and plunged his face into the water.

-TRANSITION-

Darkness surrounded Draco, smudged across his vision and shimmering as the ocean did in moonlight. Muffled voices whispered in his ears, and a heavy weight pinned his chest down and kept him sinking deeper and deeper, plunging into the depths of an ocean he couldn't see. His limbs flailed, but kicking out at the abyss only made him drift further. Draco was overly aware that he wasn't breathing, until his back hit a cushioned surface, the clouds around his vision faded away, and a breath filled his lungs.

A familiar ceiling laid ahead of him, a mattress beneath his back and an arm slung over his torso. His robes had disappeared, replaced instead by bedsheets that dusted over his skin, light as a cloud. He was in his bed, he realised, warm and safe in a pair of arms that held him tight against another man's chest.

Draco laid there, motionless. He remembered falling asleep like this, but the few days since felt like forever. He would have happily stayed here, trapped in a past version of himself with the moonlight shimmering through the window and dusting the sheets with silver.

A shuffle under the sheets beside him disturbed his peace. The arms retracted, and a figure sat up with a hand clutching either side of their head. Draco looked over to see the smooth plain of a muscular back and a head of black, ruffled hair. His heart melted. Potter groaned, and clutched at his forehead as though he planned to tear a section of his skull away.

"Potter?" Draco whispered, but Potter took no notice of him. He sprung from the bed in a sudden haste, reaching for his clothes, strewn out across the floor. Draco reached to take his arm and grab his attention, but of course, his skin turned translucent and sifted through Harry's like a ghost's would. The warmth of Harry's skin against his had made him forget for a minute that this was a memory, and that he was a fragment of the future - he didn't really exist here. He couldn't disrupt or interfere with the events that took place, only watch as they spiralled on, out of his control.

Draco sat up, and watched as Harry rushed to redress. Climbing from the bed himself, Draco found that he was instantly redressed in the same robes he'd been wearing when he'd plunged his face into the penseive. He glanced back and found his past self fast asleep on the left side of the bed, eyes closed and thoughts absent - in a dream, perhaps. He couldn't remember.

Behind him, Potter had just pulled a shirt over his head and zipped up his fly. Heading for the door, he turned back as he reached the doorframe and gazed at Draco's sleeping body, eyes filled with a longing that Draco had scarcely seen before - and one that was certainly absent from Potter's gaze in his present time. Decided, Potter darted back across the room - unknowingly walking straight through Draco's ghostly figure - and bent down to press a kiss to the sleeping Draco's forehead, his hand stroking away a lock of blonde hair. Draco watched, and sighed. If only he could jump back into his body as he had been before and feel Potter's cushioned lips press against his skin. Even better if he could will himself awake, to be able to kiss Harry hard on the lips and knot his fingers in his hair, before he'd be torn from him again by whatever events were about to unfold that night. Potter retreated towards the door, and a little reluctantly, Draco soon followed.

Outside, the hallway appeared more narrow than usual. It was strange; Draco had slept in that same room for years, and yet he'd never realised how the hall's walls were just inches away from grazing against his shoulders as he strolled through, with Potter's taunt shoulders a few feet ahead of him. The Gryffindor appeared tense - afraid perhaps, The memory wasn't accurate, Draco recalled, only a telling of how Potter had perceived everything, and currently it was tainted by fear. And rightly so - What did Potter think he was doing, wandless and barely dressed, unable to defence himself against any kind of intruder? Draco gazed at Potter's face as he turned around and checked the hall behind him. Draco wondered how it felt to be the hero, with all that pressure to brave it out and rampage into every single danger as though it was nothing. Why couldn't Harry have just been a coward, and stayed tucked up in bed with Draco all night?

Up ahead, voices wafted towards them. They were just murmurs at this distance, emulating from a door at the end of the hall, stood slightly ajar. But Potter's footsteps remained just as careless, heavy enough to have stirred a family of mice and sure to attract the attention of a few intruders. Draco winced, and silently willed Potter to quieten his approach, but as they continued there appeared no indication that he had, as of yet, been heard.

As they reached the door, Potter ducked to the ground and crouched with his back against the wall, listening with wide, fearful eyes to the voices that drifted through the door towards him.

Draco listened too, his features having turned to a thoughtful frown in concentration. The words were muffled, as though his ears were filled to the brim with thick cotton wool, and all he could make out was gruff laughter and a vindictive tone that sliced apart the arrogance in two other voices. He couldn't tell whether Harry's hearing was really crap and he usually heard like this, or if the memory was tainted by trauma, but either way they were indistinguishable. Yet, underneath their thick cover, the voices sounded vaguely familiar.

Instilled with confidence from the knowledge that he could be neither heard nor seen, Draco stepped past Harry, towards the open door. All he had to do was peer around the door and get a good look of whoever was responsible for the break-in. He reached out for the handle, and was vaguely amused by his own forgetfulness as his hand phased through it. A light grin rose on Draco's features. He extended his leg forward into the door, watching it disappear through the wooden surface, and stepped through.

When he emerged on the other side, Draco was struck with a sudden lack of balance. A darkness stretched out in front of him, but his eyes were wide open. He wobbled, unstable and teetering forwards as though he were stood on a thin wooden beam. He glanced at his feet, saw the door behind him and the grey carpet at his feet, which ended abruptly beneath his heels.

Startled, Draco drew a choked breath. An endless black abyss consumed the room, cascading out into oblivion - and Draco was balancing on the edge of existence. He grabbed for something to hold onto, but of course he was a ghost, and the door frame skidded through his grasp, every inch untouchable to his distant hands. He thought for a panicked moment that he was sure to fall - and Merlin knew where the darkness would court him off to. But then his balance swayed in his favour, and he was able to hike himself back into the hallway and stagger away from the door.

Heavy breathing raked at his chest, and Draco's eyes strayed back to Potter, who still sat against the wall, oblivious to the blonde's presence. Draco's eyes clenched shut and he cursed under his breath. Of course, he could only see what Potter had seen, as everything he saw now was a recollection of what he had witnessed. These memories were beginning to irritate Draco.

Huffing in frustration, Draco returned to Potter and sunk down onto the ground beside him. The voices were louder now. One of them shouted in a violent snarl and the others pleaded. Draco hardly cared anymore; the voices told him nothing. He was just waiting for this memory to come to an end, and release him back into the real world.

But part of him didn't want to go. Draco turned his head to watch Potter, observing how his fingers grappled with the sleeve of his shirt and his eyes watched the door, fleeting with nervous energy. Draco wanted to take his hand and hold it still, and drag away Potter's eyes from the door so they were trained instead on his face. All he could do was watch. It occurred to him that this wasn't too different from the life outside the memory. The longing he held within him to touch Harry - that was the same. And so too was the lack of response from Potter, making all of Draco's attempts end in his perpetual heartbreak. At least here, Draco could watch without having to face Potter's toxic rejection.

Draco absently reached a hand out to take Potter's. The air felt warm as his palm approached Potter's hand, and for a naive moment he wondered if perhaps he'd be able to touch him, to hold his hand for just a moment and feel the spark of warmth sizzling between their skin. But instead his hand sunk through Potter's flesh as before, feeling nothing but sparse air and a cold root of loneliness tickle from within him. Draco retrieved his hand and cradled it against his chest as though it were wounded, slumping lazily against the wall with a distant wish to be out of this hellish nightmare he'd succumbed himself to.

But the memory dived into action again. The door slammed shut, bouncing against its frame as though it had been shoved by the wind. But there was no breeze, only Potter leaning his shoulder carelessly against it. Draco shook his head; the man was a danger to himself. But beyond the door a set of footsteps drew closer.

Potter scrambled to get away, whilst Draco shot to his feet and darted around the door, determined to catch a good look at the intruder. But what he saw made him root to the spot. The darkness, it was... _moving._ The abyss rumbled as footsteps pounded against the wooden floor, echoes of the room that should have been there, and as they approached the door, a dark hand reached out and shoved, making it rock back on its hinges and creak as it slammed into the wall.

And out of the abyss came a dark figure, the same matt black as the darkness that loomed beyond the door. The empty shadow filled the space where a person should have been, large and demeaning with broad shoulders and a square jaw. It's edges were rigid, devoid of any identifiable human shape - the only thing Draco could tell about the person who it was meant to represent was that they were huge, and built like a rock. It was like a cut-out, positioned for someone else to fill in the gaps. As the dark figure glazed over him and turned decisively towards Potter, Draco only frowned. Another thing Potter hadn't seen? This didn't make any sense. Some part of his brain must have been hiding the information away.

"Just the person we've been looking for." A voice rumbled deep in the shadow's throat, gruff and sinister like the sound of a roaring engine. Harry screamed.

-TRANSITION-

Both the deep, menacing voice and the painful echoes of his screams resided like ghosts in Draco's ears as the memory dissolved into clouds of grey around him. It faded to blue, the clouds shimmering until they resembled water, and Draco was simply staring into the bottom of the penseive, his head submerged as it had been before.

When he rose his head, he glanced up to see Potter keeled over in his seat, shoulders hunched and fingers pressed to his temples. Dazed, Draco watched the other man's eyes clench shut, breaths heaving in his chest and face contorted into a look of pure pain. Draco recalled the serenity that had pooled in Potter's eyes as he'd bent to kiss Draco as he slept, and wished he could coil up and go back there.

Pressing his palms to his eyes, Potter groaned and the sound yanked Draco back into the present. He discarded the penseive with a flick of his wand, and leant forward to try and see Potter's face.

"What is it?" he wondered, panic invading his tone, but Potter didn't respond. His fingers clawed at his face and he cowered forward, falling to the floor. His frame began to shiver, limbs stiffening as his eyes rolled back into his head and his whole body shook violently, as though he was having some kind of fit. Meanwhile, his fingers were still hooked into his eyebrows, digging deep enough to leave heavy indents.

"No," Draco uttered. "Potter, you're going to hurt yourself - Harry!"

The blonde took a firm hold of Potter's wrists and pried his hands away from his face, fearful that the Gryffindor would do himself an injury, and beneath he found that the other man's cheeks were stained with tears. Potter cried out, flailing, his eyes still clamped shut as though he was trapped in some kind of nightmare, perhaps reliving that night. Draco gripped his wrists a little tighter, but within seconds Harry's cries had morphed to sobs; his body went limp and melted into tears.

Calmed, Potter appeared a thousand times more beautiful. Instead of a scowl or fearful glare, his face greeted Draco with a silent serenade of peace, even with the wash of tears staining his cheeks. Draco simply couldn't help it; he reached out and brushed a single thumb over Potter's cheek to smooth the tears away.

But as always, such a moment couldn't last. Potter's eyes shot open and Draco's hand was swiftly slapped away. The dark haired man stared wide eyed back at the blonde for a moment, then scrambled back to his armchair and sunk into the fabric as though it were a suit of armour that protected him. His hands rubbed at his wrists, as though Draco's touch had scorched them with painful burns.

At the sight, Draco's chest felt hot and heavy. He didn't know what he was meant to do. Every fibre of his being told him he should have been holding Potter, rocking and petting and kissing away his pain, vowing to track down whatever was causing it. But the knowledge of how that was likely to play out plagued his mind, and kept him from acting. Even still, he simply couldn't stare into Potter's tear-stained eyes like this and do nothing. The emerald ring surrounding Potter's pupils, now thin and glassy, was melting, pooling into green tears that reached out to Draco and tugged him nearer. He couldn't help himself: He reached out, grabbed Harry by the shoulders and pulled him close, pressing their lips together. The veil of salty tears between them made Draco's heart sting with a singeing warmth.

But as always, Potter pulled away, yanking Draco's heart violently with him.

Draco bowed his head. He should have known, and spared himself the pain of that rejection. Draco felt tears stinging at his eyes, pricking the edges with their deadly pincers, and they angered him. He shot to his feet, a menacing scowl brewing on his features.

"What is wrong with you?" Draco demanded. Potter only stared blankly back at him, like some sort of empty shell. " _Don't_ just stare at me like that! What is it? One day you hate me, the next you're fucking me and then... _this?_ I understand it takes a while to get used to loving someone you thought was your enemy but we seem to be going backwards - the moment I thought you were opening up to me you started refusing to even _touch_ me. What in Merlin's name has changed?!"

Potter gave no indication that he had anything to say. His eyes left Draco's and stared instead at the ground.

"Are you ill?" Draco continued, voice softening into a murmur. "Did something happen that night, something you're concealing, or something you don't remember? Are you hurt, or -" His breath hitched. "Did I do something stupid without knowing it? Because if I did, I honestly don't know what it was, so you'll have to enlighten me."

Potter's teeth bit hard down onto his bottom lip, as though there were words tingling at the end of his tongue that he just couldn't bear to say.

Draco sighed. "I love you," he whispered. "I have loved you for... Longer than you would imagine. And whilst I appreciate that I cannot force you to feel the same - not through curses, or potions, or blackmail - I can't live like this. I can't take you being so tantalisingly close yet a million miles away at the same time!"

Potter shifted, uncomfortable, and Draco stepped towards him. He regretted it at the sight of Potter flinching away.

"If you feel the same, please stop being like this. And if you don't, well I -" Draco's voice broke, crumbling into a silence that spanned the miles between them. Potter's face hadn't changed, adorned with that same confusion that prodded at Draco's temper. But whatever was haunting Harry wasn't about to be cast away with a few meaningless words. Draco didn't realise he was crying until the acid tears reached his chin, and he swiped them from his cheeks and turned away. He couldn't bear to look back at Potter any longer.

Voices rattled through the door a moment later.

"What the hell is going on?!"

"Sir, I am going to have to ask you to remain calm, please do not resist arrest -"

"Arrest? What do you mean _arrest?_ I'm Head Auror - you can't barge in here and start arresting people without my authority!"

Blaise Zabini's distinct tone turned the sour air stark cold, his shouts clambering through the closed door and tugging at Draco's ears, stealing away his attention. The blonde headed towards the door, ignoring the man he'd left behind him. But as he tugged the door open, the thrashing weight of two colliding bodies slammed it shut again, and Draco flinched back. At the next safe opportunity he darted out into the hallway, and found his friend tackling another auror to the ground, fists pummelling into bones and flesh. The auror - a greying man with a tight scowl - grappled for his wand, trapped somewhere beneath him.

In one swift motion, Draco flicked out his wand and cast each of them to an opposite side of the hallway, flung apart with such a force that their skulls bashed into their respective walls with a thump. Perhaps that would knock some sense into them.

"What in Merlin's name is going on here?" Draco demanded. It wasn't common for Blaise to lose his temper - in fact, the man usually remained eerily calm - the outburst, primarily, was a cause for concern.

"This man seems to think he's here to _arrest_ me," Blaise said as he climbed to his feet, rubbing away the pain at the back of his head.

"Arrest?" Draco returned. "Why would anyone want to do that?"

The Auror climbed to his feet and retrieved his wand from the floor. With just a slight flick of his wrist, Blaise's wand had riddled its way from the man's pocket and soared right into the Auror's waiting hand before he could even try to make a grab for it.

"Hey!" Blaise protested. "What do you think you're doing?"

The Auror tucked Blaise's wand away into his robes, his own wand remained trained on Blaise's chest. "I'm going to have to ask you to raise your hands in the air, sir. This _is_ an arrest, and it may not do you well to attack me again."

Blaise's eyes darted from the Auror's face to Draco's and back again, but, seeing no other option, he was forced to obligingly raise his hands in the air. His eyes met Draco's gaze, topped with a knotted brow that told him to do something - and quick.

"Excuse me," Draco interjected, "But what kind of authority do you think you have to come barging into my home and making commands of my friends?" Still armed, he brought his wand and aimed it at the other man's chest, mimicking the Auror's stance.

The Auror only looked at him blankly, neither amused nor at all intimidated. "You'd better put that wand down too, Mr. Malfoy. My team are about to arrive, and we'll be happy to take both you and your _friend_ in if you cause us any trouble."

With a dejected sigh, Draco lowered his wand. This man was years older than him, and likely more experienced with magic than he would be for decades.

"Well, for Merlin's sake at least tell me what you're arresting him for!"

The Auror, although his eyes were trained on Blaise, glanced momentarily back at Draco, appearing suspicious. "That's not information I can disclose to you at the moment, sir. Please, this would go much better for everyone if you just stayed out of it."

The batter of footsteps against the wooden floor, echoing down from the other end of the hall, hushed any response on Draco's tongue, and the narrow space was filled with a swarm of Aurors. Each had a wand and both eyes fixed on Blaise, whose hands were still held in the air with a confused and slightly fearful look of shock on his face. With a flick of one Auror's wrist, his legs were roped together, his hands bound by another, and then his feet were plucked off the floor and he was carried away.

-TRANSITION-

They headed for the main entrance, passing by the ballroom, library, and dining room with not a care for the elves darting away so as not to be trampled beneath their feet. Draco followed close behind, but refrained from intervening for fear of the consequences. As they passed by, Draco noticed a familiar figure lingering by the dining room door, a woman with white blonde hair, dressed in black as always. He turned and caught her eyes, each wide and yet narrow enough to conceal secrets within them.

"Mother?" Draco wondered, snatched away from the crowd to stalk towards her. "Mother, do you know what's going on here? Would you tell these men to leave Blaise be; they don't seem take any notice of me."

Narcissa clutched at the door handle and stared back at Draco, jaw clenched taunt and shoulders stiff. "Let the Auror's do their jobs, darling. I'm sure they have reason for it." She stepped back into the dining room and closed the door behind her.

"Mother -" Draco said, but she was already gone, and when he dove for the door handle he found that it was locked from the inside. He frowned, and turned back to find the hallway empty around him.

By the time he'd reached the Manor's entrance, it was too late: the Aurors marched out the front door, taking with them a figure lulled into a forced sleep, hovering beside them in the air. Draco gulped; Blaise would be courted off to Azkaban. They didn't put any old criminals in a comatose state, only those who they couldn't risk getting away. What Draco simply couldn't imagine was what Blaise could have possibly done.

"Draco! Oh, Merlin -"

Pansy stepped in through the open doors, glancing back at her husband and his cohort, and rushed towards Draco. A band clutched her dark hair back into a ponytail, and under her eyes were faded shadows stained with tears. She ran into Draco and buried her head in his shoulder, erupting into a series of quaking sobs.

Though a little startled, Draco held her to him as she sobbed, her tears soaking quickly through his shirt. "What happened?" he asked. "Blaise - did he do something? To you?"

Pansy quivered with an indistinguishable bobbing of her head.

"The newspaper," she stuttered once her sobs had subsided enough for her to speak. "He did that, Draco, _he_ charmed it, _he_ wrote all those horrible things about you and Harry. It was him, all this time."

Draco drew a breath, and his frown only deepened. "How do you know that?"

"It was his handwriting. On the newspaper. They checked his wand - the Aurors - and he cast the charm. He must have snuck into my office the night before, stolen my key - oh, Merlin, he said he was working late. That's supposed to mean he's cheating, not hurting people!"

"Blaise did it?" Draco questioned, shaking his head. "Blaise? He couldn't have. No, he wouldn't. What motive could he possibly - Wait, 'hurting?' What has he done to _hurt_ anyone?"

Pansy tried to wipe her tears away with the cuff of her sleeve but more welled up and tumbled down onto her face to quickly replace the last.

"They found something else with his wand," she said. "He took down the wards around the Manor the other day, the night it was broken in to. And the knife, the one that Harry was stabbed with, they found it in his office. It had Harry's blood smeared all over it - Draco, it was _awful!"_

But Draco was only shaking his head. His head was whirring with disbelief, but even squeezing his eyes shut didn't brush away his confusion.

"That's not possible," he insisted. It made no sense - whatever evidence the Aurors had obtained must have been false. He knew his best friend, and Blaise never would have even thought of doing something like this. "More than one person broke in," Draco argued. "Potter heard voices, more than just one. And wouldn't he have known if one of them was Blaise?"

 _Wouldn't_ I _have known?_ Draco and Blaise had been friends since eleven years old, and he was sure over anything else that, had Blaise been a part of that memory - even distorted by Harry's traumas - he would have recognised Blaise immediately.

But Pansy wouldn't listen. "His wand doesn't lie. He cast those spells - it was him!"

It was almost like Pansy wanted Blaise to be guilty. She was crying, distraught, but perhaps it was easier to accept the accusation rather than challenge it. Hope was something Slytherins were often encouraged to suppress - it was easier to accept hard facts and work around them rather than strive for hope and potentially be disappointed. Draco, meanwhile, refused to entertain the idea that Blaise was guilty for even a second.

But Pansy was still crying, her hands clutching at Draco's robes and her whole body quivering as though she'd been stood out in the cold for hours. She was in shock.

"Come on now," Draco coaxed her, guiding her by the arm as she swept away her tears. "I think we could both do with a cup of tea."

-TRANSITION-

The moon, perched in the abyss of the night sky, shimmered down on the dark towers of Azkaban that night, a beacon. But even still, the shadows of the stone prison would not be cast away. The towers stood like gravestones, tall and dark, age-old stone crumbling in places and leaving gaping holes in the walls. Grey ash fog filled the air, and the night was bitter cold, a vacuum that sucked away any warmth or comfort.

Tonight, however, Hermione was unafraid of the night, nor the creatures that lurked within it. Despite the cold, her skin was coated in a thick sheen of sweat, making her shirt stick to her back. Her bare feet slipped against the sheen rock beneath her feet as she stumbled, dazed, towards the window. She could feel her heart pounding deep within her chest, her muscles tightening, bones stiffening. Reflected in her glassy pupils, the moon shone, creeping out from behind a cloud.

As Hermione stepped out of the shadows, a scream tore out from her. There was a monster growing beneath her skin, threatening to erupt out at any second.

Hermione collapsed forwards cradling her stomach. Her legs caved beneath her, bending backwards at the knees - the snap of bones breaking echoed around her cell, and she cried out yet again at the startling pain. It was beginning, the transformation from woman to wolf, and pain rattled through her, willing her eyes to clench shut. And yet her gaze was tugged back up to the white orb in the sky, its light seeming to reach out and drag her closer to the window. Her feet elongated, doubling in length, bones cracking with the effort. Her toes became round pads, out of which sprung thick, sharp claws that tapped the rocky ground beneath. She screamed; all the bones in her body were being ripped from beneath her skin.

In a burst of pain, her back arched, spine bending to form a crooked hunch. Hermione fell forwards and hugged her stomach, but already her fingers had turned to claws and left bloody wounds in her torso. She whimpered, no longer able to shed tears; her eye ducts had dried up. She stared, watching as the bristly brown hairs sprout like weeds from her skin, witness her clothes tearing away into shreds at her feet and her face morphing into a snout before her eyes. She scrunched them closed, curled up on the ground, and waited for it all to be over with.

-TRANSITION-

The creature that awoke was not Hermione Granger. It was tall and lean, with bones jutting out at every angle of its hunched frame. It climbed onto its hind legs with its snout raised, sensing something dark lingering in the air. The wolf's eyes darted about the cell, and its ears twitched at the sound of someone distantly screaming. Before it, the moon shone, a silver shimmering light that cast a glow over the land. The wolf could sense the sea in the distance, smell salt in the air beneath the distinct, overwhelming scent of death. It crept towards the window, paws creating hollow taps as they made their way along the rocky ground beneath.

Night air swarmed outside, and the wolf's fur swam with it, restless and billowing like the wind had its own mind. Snout stretched out further into the abyss, the wolf caught the scent of animals, some alive, some dead, some... caught somewhere in between. The wolf recoiled. Its tongue was saturated, mouth watering at the hunger that burned in its stomach. Starvation ate at the creature's flesh, and sucked life from the unborn pup that lay sleeping in its womb. But nothing here seemed edible. Everything was rotting, from the stone towers, to the sparse vegetation miles below, to the slowly dying animals that were kept penned into cells made of stone. Cells just like this one. But the wolf cared not for the prison surrounding it. One thing resided in the wolf's mind: Food.

A dark creature, more like a ghost than any living thing, crept into its vision just then. The black tendrils of its limbs stretched out before it, and billowed in the wind behind it as it went, soaring past like a mere shadow. The wolf sensed no flesh on its bones, no blood in its veins. Only darkness. Only solitude. Only death. The wolf cowered away as it approached, but its eerie form swam by without turning back, as though it was unaware of the wolf's presence. It disappeared gradually into the fog, followed by the freezing cold that seemed to latch onto it like a leech, sucking away any warmth from its surroundings. The wolf was left alone again.

It peered down into the darkness beneath, a sharp drop interrupted only by the thick fog. The wolf took a step forward, its paw resting on the edge, but when a rock fell, it scampered back with a deep growl erupting from its throat. It was scared. Petrified. No different here to its human state.

Except that it was hungry. And a lot stronger.

The iron door that had kept Hermione Granger in the cell was nothing to this wolf, only a barrier between it and its freedom. The wolf lunged, charging through the door which creaked against its hinges and swung gently open. The wolf crouched low to the ground and crept through, seeking to find a way out of the hell it had awoke trapped in.


	10. Chapter 10: Directions

Chapter 10: Directions

It was hardly dawn, the sun only just teetering on the edge of the sky, yet on Borgin and Burke's shop floor knelt a blonde figure. His shoulders stood taunt beneath his robes, and his fingers fiddled with the cloth clutched between them.

"Oh, you're beautiful," he whispered, letting a smile creep onto his face. He reached out to brush his fingertips along the lid of the Ottoman stood in front of him, and felt a carpet of dust covering its surface. Draco swept his cloth over the lid where his fingers had rested, delicate so as not to disturb the wood's polish. A small tornado of dust fluttered to the ground, dragged towards the front of the shop and out onto the street below, where the front door had been tugged open.

A deep voice cleared their throat.

"I didn't expect to see you here this early," Fenrir Greyback mused, easing the door shut as he entered. The blonde rose slowly to his feet and dropped the cloth on his desk, fixing a questioning look on Fenrir.

"Nor did I expect to see you again," Draco said. "A second visit within the week? What did I do to deserve this?"

"Nothing in particular. But I was interested in making a deal with you."

"Really?" Draco's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "You're not the sort to make business deals. What is this really about, Fenrir?"

The werewolf chuckled. He slung his hands into his pockets, shoulders low and relaxed. He didn't seem to have come looking for a fight, but then again Draco didn't trust that his intentions were good. The blonde's eyes flickered towards the cobbled street outside, surprised to find it sparse of the usual werewolf hoard. Greyback had come alone.

"For your information, Malfoy, I make plenty of business deals," the werewolf said. "I have an antique I thought you might be interested in. But if not, I can always take my business elsewhere..."

Without his permission, Draco's face contorted with intrigue. He couldn't help it; a certain inbuilt curiosity tickled at his mind. Greyback hardly seemed like the sort of person to collect antiques, but he'd been around long enough to have acquired something of value.

"I'm listening," Draco said.

"It's an old vase. Belonged to my mother. It's got flowers painted on it, and a signature on the bottom."

Draco's face brightened at the idea, though he tried to keep his tone low with apprehension. "Well, did you bring it with you?"

"No." Greyback's arms folded over his chest. "I have some... _Errands_ to run. But I can bring it by this evening, if you're willing to wait."

There was something about his stance - legs wide apart, shoulders relaxed, elbows squared in front of him - that gave a sense of stern arrogance, as if the werewolf had just won a bet and was still basking in his glory. But whatever victory made him grin as he did now was unbeknown to Draco. The blonde was a little perturbed, but that was hardly an unusual reaction to Fenrir's presence.

"Of course," he agreed. True, he'd hoped to return to the Manor as soon as possible, but Draco knew he wouldn't be missed.

Greyback smiled. The edges of his mouth curved upwards, into a shape that closely resembled a fishing hook. A shiver shot down Draco's spine."

"I'll be by later then," Fenrir said, and turned to leave the way he'd came. His figure disappeared around the door frame, and only dark streams of smoke wafted over onto the other side, the remnants of Greyback's Apparation.

Draco, expecting the swift arrival of his usual morning customers, turned back and continued his work, trying not to let Greyback's stare play too heavily on his mind.

-TRANSITION-

Murmurs tickled at the edges of Hermione's consciousness. Her skin tingled, shivering in the sharp cold, and the grass beneath her bare back was wet with dew from the long, rainy night that had just passed.

Hermione's eyes flew open. It was day, and the sun blinded her vision as it shone through the tree leaves; she was curled up on the ground in the middle of a dense forest, stark naked with not a single string of clothing to keep her warm. She looked around, dumbfounded. The last thing she remembered was pain, darkness closing in on her, and the ghostly screams of her unborn child echoing around in her aching skull.

A soft heap, slightly damp, dropped into her lap, tossed at her from above. Hermione started, and glanced down to find a crumbled pile of clothing.

"Put them on," a gruff voice ordered. "And get up. We have places to be."

Hermione pulled the clothes over her frame, and although they were a little on the larger side, the warmth made her cling to the material and hug it tight around her. Beneath them, she'd caught glances of red marks gauged into her skin, slicing across her stomach and lacing her back in red. They were raw and ached, but she dared not inspect them.

She stood, and the figure approached. He dropped a pair of muddy brown boots at her feet. She stepped into them and glanced up; sure enough Greyback was standing over her, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. There was a narrowness to his gaze, critical or tired she couldn't tell, but the messy state of his hair told her that, of course, he had transformed last night too. However, he didn't look at all pleased to see her. Hermione glared back; the feeling was mutual.

Without need for greeting, the man turned away and nodded for her to follow. "Come on." There was no need for him to explain why it was him here, waiting for her. After last night, the sight of someone who'd experienced exactly what Hermione had was almost... _Comforting._

Hermione stumbled after him, struggling to walk; the boots were miles too big, but tripping over tree roots was preferable to losing a few toes to frostbite. Fenrir strode on up ahead, seeming unconcerned with whether she kept up or not, yet every so often Hermione would catch him glancing slyly back to make sure that she was still there.

An opening made itself clear through the trees up ahead, and Hermione was fairly sure she could hear the rumble of cars zipping by on a motorway. Finally, Fenrir stopped and waited for her, yet he didn't dare turn to look at her until she was stood beside him, her breathing heavy.

"You walk too slow," the werewolf accused, only to be countered by Hermione's sudden scoff.

"Correction," she said, still heaving. "I walk at a perfectly normal speed. You, however, walk absurdly fast. Do you have somewhere better to be?"

Greyback didn't bother answering. Hermione looked around, peering out onto the road, hidden by just a thin row of trees. It wasn't a motorway as she'd expected, but a quaint little road that ran through the forest, cutting a dent in the trees which continued just as thick on the adjacent side of it. It was the kind that usually joined small villages and towns in the countryside.

"Where are we?" Hermione wondered aloud. "And what time is it?"

Greyback glanced up at the sky. "It's mid-afternoon," he said, then turned to his left and set off down the trodden path beside the road.

"This way."

-TRANSITION-

It was dark before any signs of civilisation came into sight. A small town hugged the horizon, lit by the glow of lamps through foggy windows, and a sense of comfort coated its cobbled streets. Hills spanned out in every direction, and it seemed as though the road they'd followed was the only one that wove in or out of the little town.

As their feet stepped from grass onto pavement, Greyback's expression barely changed. He headed for a lit store up ahead, tall windows bathed in the light from inside, which trickled out onto the pavement. A cafe - and one which was approaching closing time, judging by the young waiter who had just finished wiping down tables and now headed for the door. His hand reached for the closing sign, but before he could turn it his eyes met Fenrir's. The boy's face dropped, and his grip slid from the sign as he stared, frozen by fear. Unfazed, Greyback strode towards the door and shoved it open, making the boy stagger back and almost fall to the floor.

"I'll have the usual," Fenrir snarled. The boy agreed with a shaky nod of his head, and darted back into the kitchens.

When he returned, a plate was clutched in his hands. Hermione watched from the table she'd sat herself at as the boy crept back out from behind the counter, and flinched when Fenrir snatched the plate from him.

"Go," Greyback said, and the boy ran straight for the door and hurtled through, sprinting down the street.

Hermione found her eyes drawn back to Fenrir's. He caught her gaze, and she assessed the look in his eyes. He carried a piercing stare, one which made her want to drill her own gaze into the table and never look up. It was one of determination, of someone who got what they wanted whenever they wanted it - someone who refused to take 'no' as an answer. Hermione was having a hard time figuring out exactly what he wanted with her.

"I have a reputation," Fenrir told her, as though trying to provide an explanation. Then his gaze snapped away from hers and he stepped forward to slap the plate down in front of her.

At one glance, Hermione's mouth began to water. A huge, bloody rib laid in the centre of the plate, oozing with a red liquid that stained the white china beneath. The meat was pink, warm but hardly cooked, as though it was fresh with the body heat of the carcass it had been sliced from. If she looked closely, she was sure she could just about see the thrum of the animal's heartbeat still echoing through its veins. Any other day the sight of such rare meat would have had Hermione hurling, but here her eyes were latched onto it, a hunger burning the empty pit of her stomach. She wanted to _eat_ it. And a second after the thought had come to mind, her hands gripped the rib and her teeth had sunken into the flesh, engorging herself in the delicious scent of blood that filled her senses.

Once the rib had been devoured, Hermione glanced up to catch Fenrir watching her. His eyes bored down from across the table, undeterred even when she stared back. His mouth curled into a sly smile, on the brink of appearing vindictive. Still he left no clue as to what he was so pleased with - or whether the lick of his lips was directed towards the rib or the woman who ate it.

Hermione wiped her mouth on her sleeve, and watched it come away stained with blood. She shivered. Her stomach felt full for the first time in days, and she could have curled up on the ground and fallen asleep, completely contented. But it seemed as though Fenrir had grown tired of waiting. He said nothing, but his hand grasped her by the forearm and yanked her to her feet. Staggering, Hermione glared up at him. Fenrir took no notice of her warning stare; he only gripped her tighter and Apparated them out of the café.

-TRANSITION-

Dark fog swarmed around Hermione and messed with her vision. She was thrown into a swarm of sudden motion, plummeting downwards with the clasp of Greyback's paw clutched around her arm as her only sign of stability. When her feet landed on solid ground, the Earth seemed to sway from side to side, making her stumble with a dizziness that gave her a sick feeling in her stomach. She reached out for something to steady herself, and found a cold metal pole that, upon a glance, turned out to be a lamppost.

A city street faded into existence around her. The concrete road beneath her feet was black and damp with rain, and as she glanced up she realised that the whole world had turned a million shades of grey. An instinct buried deep within her rib cage yearned to be back in that forest, surrounded instead by shades of green and yellow and brown, all layered on top of a clear blue sky.

As if voicing her thoughts, Fenrir groaned. He was ahead of her, walking off down the road and yet again expecting her to follow. She turned in his direction; a familiar building resided up ahead. It's floors stretched into the sky, tall enough to intimidate even the smuggest of visitors, and each brick was painted a dark shade of grey, stern and unmoving - it was all rather fitting, considering the building's owners. Yes - this time Hermione knew exactly where they were headed: Malfoy Manor.

Hermione sped up, racing after Fenrir with a boiling rage bubbling beneath her skin. This was the last place she wanted to be. Fenrir strode down the street carelessly, yet even at his leisurely speed Hermione had to jog to keep up.

"What are we doing here?" she demanded once she'd caught up with him, fuming when Greyback paid her no attention. "Why did you bring me here? Greyback -"

"I told you I'd need a favour from you."

Greyback's tone was unusually calm and his gaze remained fixed ahead. "You know, for getting you a free ticket out of Azkaban? I'm cashing that in tonight."

Hermione's face broke into a look of disbelief. "I don't think it's fair for me to do anything for you," she blurted, her features contorted in rage. "I think I've suffered enough, considering what you've done to me!"

She recalled the feeling of her bones breaking, organs shifting, muscles tearing apart, and the exchange appeared to be complete - she'd suffered enough to get out of Azkaban, and would have to suffer further every month for the rest of her life. Yet here Fenrir was, demanding more of her.

The werewolf halted and turned to her, making her skirt to a stop alongside him. He leaned in to her, his fists clenched tightly at his sides to hold in his pending rage. His voice was tainted with restrained aggression as he spoke.

"If you think I'm such a monster, then why are you still here?" Hermione remained perfectly still with her eyes locked on his. He leant back and scoffed. "That's what I thought. And anyway, I'm pretty sure what I'm about to ask of you will be just as much in your interest as it is mine."

Hermione sighed. "Fine. What is this 'favour'?"

"I'm sure you've heard about your friend, Harry Potter, and his recent marriage? Well, I have some acquaintances who aren't pleased with the arrangement."

 _What acquaintances?_ Hermione wondered, but dared not say it aloud.

"I want you to get Potter out. I need him out of Malfoy Manor, out of the country if I can, but I don't want to have to take an unnecessary risk by kidnapping him. You can go in there and convince him to leave with us. He won't trust me, but he'll follow you."

Hermione's arms tensed. She'd heard through whispers that Harry had been married to Draco Malfoy, but had by no means believed them. Now, hearing Harry's name, she wanted to see him. Merlin knew what state he'd be in under Malfoy's roof, and although it had only been days since she'd seen him, it felt like whole years had passed her by.

"What's the catch this time?" she said.

Fenrir shook his head. "There isn't one."

"You wouldn't go out of your way to help me or Harry."

"Who says I wouldn't? Perhaps I'm in a charitable mood."

Hermione frowned at him with a narrow sideways glance. "Somehow that doesn't seem to fit your personality."

Fenrir chuckled. "I told you: There are some people who want Potter out of Malfoy Manor. I don't know why. I don't ask questions, I just do the job I'm paid for."

They approached the Manor's gates, and in an effortless leap, Fenrir jumped halfway up it and climbed the rest of the way, perching on the top with his legs bent in a low crouch.

"Come on," he beckoned Hermione, who shook her head.

"I can't climb that," she called back. "It's too high."

"No it's not. You can make it," Fenrir told her stiffly. "Get a move on, Granger."

Although unsure, Hermione grasped the fence with both hands and hoisted herself up, surprised to find that doing so wasn't quite as difficult as she'd imagined. Her feet slid in between the bars and caught on the horizontal rows behind, finding grip where she would have easily supposed there was none. Within a few steps her hand reached the top of the fence.

Hermione grinned, pleased with herself, and tried to pull herself up beside Fenrir. The werewolf grabbed her arm and towed her up, but she shook off his grip - she didn't want or need his help.

Hermione gazed down at the world around her. The fence wasn't particularly high, and reached nowhere near the heights that her cold, damp cell in Azkaban had. But it was tall enough for everything to seem slightly smaller than usual, detached from her as she sat perched on the gate beside Greyback. The Manor stood silently ahead of her, its dark bricked walls fading slightly into the night sky behind as though it was a mirage, hidden away by the night. Hermione recalled the last time she'd been here, and shivered. It wasn't the kind of memory she liked to resurface often.

"Shouldn't there be wards of some kind?" she said; it seemed too easy for them to simply climb over a fence and enter a heavily guarded Manor.

"There are," Fenrir grunted back. "They're disabled. But they won't stay that way forever, so I suggest you hurry up." With that, he launched off the fence and landed neatly on the ground below, legs bent into a crouch. He glanced back up at Hermione, still balanced precariously on the top of the fence. He seemed to prod her without words, and some insane notion within her trusted him. She let go, and felt the unsettling sensation of falling, but before she could become afraid her feet had met the ground and she was still again.

Rising, Hermione breathed deeply. She glanced back up at the fence now behind her, and even in hindsight it appeared infinitely tall. It seemed impossible that she'd succeeded it so easily, yet she had. A small smile graced her features; maybe this werewolf thing wasn't such a terrible curse after all.

She followed Fenrir as he strolled across the grounds, his chin raised like a hound following a strong scent in the air. Hermione watched his back as she walked behind him. His muscles were tense, shoulder blades taunt and steps careful on the grassy ground beneath their feet. This time, he didn't look back to make sure Hermione was following, in fact his eyes remained fixed on the air up ahead. Yet somehow she could sense that he was thinking of her, his body racked with tension at the knowledge that her eyes were scorning over him.

Coming to a stop, Fenrir turned back to Hermione. He pointed to a window on the building, three stories up with a faint light glowing through the curtains. "Potter is in that room," Fenrir told her. "Climb up there and get him out as quickly as possible. I'll be down here waiting once you're out."

Hermione eyed up the brick wall with a raised eyebrow. "I can't climb that," she said, shaking her head.

"You said you couldn't climb the fence," Fenrir countered. "But you did."

"No. This is different. I can't climb that wall, it's impossible."

"I think you'll find it's entirely possible if you give it a shot. Use the ivy. It should be easy enough."

"But I can't -"

"Enough complaining." Fenrir silenced her with a raised hand. "I don't have time to listen to you bicker. Get up there and get it done."

In a cloud of Death Eater smoke, he Apparated out of sight.

Hermione staggered back from the empty air where he had stood and swatted smoke from across her vision. For a moment her skin felt deadly cold, as if all the warmth had been drawn from her blood and scattered into the night air. She shook off the sensation.

Her eyes shot towards the window Fenrir had pointed out to her, then trailed down the ladder of ivy below it. The ivy clung to the bricks in a straight line, from a mere metre or so off the ground all the way up and past Harry's window. But doubt crept into Hermione's mind. It had been raining, and the vines would be slippery and wet. Not to mention, whilst climbing the fence had been simple, scaling the side of a building seemed to require slightly more skill than she possessed.

However, a magnet drag towed Hermione towards the wall, and her hands gripped the ivy despite every absent thought that said it was impossible. She wanted to see Harry. She _had_ to see Harry. What else was she meant to do? It wasn't like she could walk away, tormented by the possibility that it could have all been real, she could have climbed this ivy and seen him.

Hands clamped around the ivy, she planted a boot flat on the wall and jumped, hoisting the other right beside it. Then she climbed, both hands and feet crawling up the ivy, hooking around the vines and leaves, her grip just gentle enough so that they wouldn't snap. Somehow, she didn't fall. Somehow, her fingers didn't slip off the leaves, despite the rain making them slippery as she'd imagined.

Every scent that surrounded her grew heightened, amplified, as though the world was in high definition. She could smell the dew on the leaves, taste the warm night air at the back of her throat. The distinct scent of each object and creature passed through her nostrils as she hung from the ivy and panned her gaze across the view,. She felt so alive. Despite the heavy boots on her feet, and the paper thin clothes that hung off her and smelt slightly damp, the cold only gave way to a tingle in the tips of her fingers and down her spine, the kind of sensation that made her feel as though the very vibration of the Earth ran through her.

One scent stood out to her. It was indescribable, something she couldn't quite put her finger on, yet it was there, wafting up her nose and making her think of Hogwarts, making her miss the six years she'd spent there. Even with the cold night air swirling around her with a bitter tint to its cool refreshing breeze, the scent carried with it a warm glow, one that reminded her of home. It drew her to scamper up the wall quicker and dart in through the open window.

As her boots hit the carpet, Hermione's eyes flickered up, anxious, and at first the room seemed empty. It was a bedroom, furnished with a four-poster bed, an unused wardrobe and a fireplace, in which the coal was still warm from use. A lamp was switched on beside the bed, and cast a glow upon the snow white bedsheets. Hermione only noticed the head of dark hair rested on one of the pillows and the lump under the covers when it moved, shifting suddenly as though jerked over by her presence.

"Harry," she uttered, kicking off the heavy boots to rush over to the bedside. She reached a hand to his shoulder, but he jerked away again. His skin was covered by a sheen of sweat, which shimmered in the soft glow of the lamp beside him. Hermione caught his shoulder and shook, beckoning him into consciousness. "Harry, wake up!"

Then Harry's eyes flew open.

 _"Hermione?"_

-TRANSITION-

It was dark, the day had come full circle, and Draco still sat waiting at Borgin and Burkes. The store had closed hours ago, the customers becoming sparse and trailing out until the floorboards echoed silence. Outside, the waning moon was trapped behind a cloud, and the cobbled streets were just a swath of black shadow. The shop floor was similarly dark, illuminated only by the faint glow of a candle flickering from the back of the store. It had been a while since Draco had done a dusk-til-dawn shift, but then again due to the circumstances back at the Manor, it had been a few weeks since he'd had the store open for a full day; a little more time to catch up on his work seemed to be just what Draco needed.

But his thoughts were invasive, and wouldn't leave him alone. He was hunched over his desk, paperwork spread out around him, and yet his quill had hardly touched the page. Concern rattled through him; he'd been anxious since noon, when a call from Blaise had thrown any hope of working out the window; Harry wasn't OK. According to Blaise, the Gryffindor had raged through a series of violent fits mid-morning. An hour later, his temperature had plummeted again, a cold drilled into the man's bones so that no number of blankets could warm him. Draco had been desperate to return home the moment he heard, but Blaise only threatened to drag him back to the store if he returned to the Manor before closing time. He was right in some ways; the store needed running, and returning home would only make Draco panic and likely disturb the medi-witches to tended to Harry. But the blonde couldn't help but wonder whether Harry had requested that he be kept away.

With a sigh, Draco dropped his quill and rubbed at his eyes with his palms. His temples pounded, drawing him further from his work. There was no use trying to get anything done at this time, what with his eyelids drooping and his head spinning with worry, and for all his waiting it didn't seem likely that Greyback would turn up any time soon. He began to roll up the scroll that laid open on his desk and collected the many pieces of parchment that were spread out around it.

The sound of smashing glass caught his attention.

The blonde's head snapped up towards the store front, blue eyes wide and turned a curious colour by the golden glow of the candle light. He stared ahead at the shadowed shop floor and past it, through the front door onto the narrow street below. He saw nothing, not the shimmer of a light, not a human-shaped shadow, not even a mouse scuttling over the stone path.

Draco crept closer, grappling through his pockets for his wand. His ears pricked, attentive, listening out for any more sounds. A voice slapped through the air from outside, an indistinguishable phrase which echoed through the streets and made Draco flinch. He scampered towards the door and peered through the store window, but the streets outside were bare. But there was someone out there, he could tell - for once he hoped it was Fenrir Greyback.

" _Lumos,"_ Draco whispered and the tip of his wand turned into an orb of light. He held it out before him as he eased the door open, a counter curse prepared on the tip of his tongue. As he approached, a street lamp flickered on above him. Draco froze - the light had smashed weeks ago, the casualty of a violent brawl that had erupted from the pub down the road. It had been cold since. Draco was drawn closer, approaching the lamppost with his wand outstretched even further.

His eyes scanned the streets, crowded by shadows and fog. "Greyback?" he questioned the darkness hesitantly. He stepped towards the foggy veil ahead of him, and felt a breeze waft over his face. The night was chilly, biting at his skin, and the darkness gave him the daunting feeling that there was someone lurking just around the corner, waiting for him.

He was right.

The door of the shop slammed shut behind him and the light at the end of his wand flickered out as it was snatched from his grip. Draco swung round, ready to flee back inside. But rough hands grabbed his forearms and yanked him back, whilst another clamped over his mouth, silencing any cries for help that flared on his tongue. And just like that he was gone, Apparated away into the night by a silent predator.

A/N: This is, admittedly, a bit of a transition chapter, and there is quite a bit of mystery at the moment. However, I promise that the next chapter will divulge some answers. Thank you to anyone who reviewed, hope you're all liking the story!


	11. Chapter 11: Escape

A/N: The Twenty-fifth Doctor made a great point on the last chapter: Azkaban is in the middle of the North Sea. I realise I didn't explain how Hermione escaped, so here's a quick summary. Keep in mind, Sirius Black managed to escape as a dog, so her escape was similar to his. I imagine Azkaban isn't that far off the coast of Scotland otherwise it would be completely impossible to get to (I think Apparating would be a pretty big security risk). So letting the currents carry her, Hermione was washed up on a beach somewhere and scampered off into the forest, to later be found by Fenrir and guided to a little Scottish town nearby. Hope this is a little more clear.

Chapter 11: Escape

Draco shivered. His arms, stripped bare and almost numb from the cold, were clasped above his head, his wrists trapped in thick metal cuffs and bolted to the wall behind him. If he moved his arms, the sound of clanking chains rang in his ears and made his head pound with agony. Thin strands of blonde hair fell over his eyes, each dripping wet with ice cold water.

He'd been startled into consciousness by the wash of freezing water hitting his face, so cold that the sensation felt similar to a hand slapping his cheek. He cried out and pulled against the chains, but they only yanked his wrists back against the brick. His ankles were cuffed too, shackled to the floor, and Draco's feet were bare - he could hardly feel them they were so cold, stood in a puddle of muddy water.

The clank of a heavy metal door hitting its frame met Draco's ears and he flinched. His eyelids were weighed down by fatigue, and a heavy plate seemed to be bolted into his skull, making it impossible to lift his head. He glanced up through damp eyelashes, but the naked light bulb that hung from the ceiling revealed only the soiled floor beneath his feet and a dozen wooden crates stacked up by the wall to his left. There was not a window in sight. By the concrete floor and the damp scent surrounding him, Draco would have guessed that he was in a cellar, but thinking made his temples ache too much for him to bare.

Footsteps approached, heavy boots that he'd heard thunder down on the wooden floorboards of his shop that morning. They descended a short flight of stairs, then their thick rubber soles slapped down on the wet concrete floor. As the footsteps approached, the sly features of Fenrir Greyback appeared under the flickering light bulb, smug and menacing as always.

"Malfoy," Greyback sneered. "I can hear those rattling chains and your moaning from upstairs, and I don't care much for the noise. Now shut up and keep still before I put you the hell back to sleep."

"What have you done to me?" Draco murmured. His tongue felt like a dead leaf in his mouth, dry and unresponsive.

"It's just a sedative, to keep you quiet. Don't worry, the Malfoy prince is quite safe." Fenrir chuckled under his breath as he reached up to screw the light bulb tighter into the ceiling. He touched the hot glass with his bare hands yet didn't flinch away at the burning heat. The light shone a little brighter.

"Mind you," Fenrir continued, fixing Draco with a cold stare. "I'm starting to think I should have administered something a lot stronger."

Draco winced as the werewolf took hold of the light bulb again, angling it so that it shone straight into Draco's eyes and blinded him.

"Why am I here?" The blonde murmured, frantically blinking away the purple spots on his vision. "What do you need me for?"

Fenrir erupted into a haughty laugh, dropping the light bulb so that it swung on its thin wires, and stepping closer to Draco so that the poignant smell of his breath tickled on the outskirts of the blonde's nostrils.

" _I_ don't need you for anything," he said and his dark smile turned sinister. Sharp canines prodded his bottom lip and the werewolf leant closer, giving Draco a good look. He shivered, pressing his sweat-coated back as far into the brick wall behind him as it would go, and breathing so fast he was on the verge of hyperventilation.

A piercing knock sliced through the air. Draco's breath hitched as Fenrir turned sharply back in the direction from which he'd came. A faint, distant light gave way to a wooden staircase that had previously been swathed in darkness, and the sound of murmuring voices could be heard from the floor above.

"Greyback?" a voice called. "Sir? Someone's asking for you."

Fenrir stormed towards the incoming voice, his feet hammering out the fearful tension in Draco's shoulders. He closed his eyes, and heard Greyback grab the other man by the front of the shirt and yank him half off his feet.

"What don't you understand about _don't come in here_? " he demanded. The other man only spluttered illegibly. "I don't want to be interrupted, do you get that? Now shut up and get out of my sight!"

Draco's eyes shot open. There was something in the tone of Fenrir's voice that was oddly familiar.

Fenrir tossed the man away and he tumbled to the ground, his limbs clattering against the wooden floor. The werewolf closed the door and the light from it faded away, leaving only the clambering of Fenrir's boots against the floor yet again. The man stepped into the light, arms folded over his chest, and Draco watched. How had he not realised before? It seemed so simple, so obvious. That voice, gruff and violent, had been stuck in Draco's head all day, repeating in an effort to identify it - how had he not recognised it sooner?

"It was you," Draco said as Fenrir approached. " _You_ broke into my home. You brought your mongrels to my doorstep and injured my husband."

Draco clenched his teeth, his cuffed hands grappling into fists above his head. He longed to tear from the chains and attack Fenrir, but lacked the strength. Fenrir's brow lowered, turning his eyes to narrow slits. It was from that look that Draco knew he was right.

"Your husband?" Fenrir scoffed. "You didn't seem so attached to him the last time we spoke."

"Things change," Draco snarled. "Now what do you have against me and Harry? What am I doing here?"

Fenrir's face crumpled with rage. He dove forwards and grabbed Draco by the neck, shoving the blonde's skull against the brick behind and digging his claw-like, hooked fingers into the younger man's throat. They felt like daggers, piercing Draco's flesh and obstructing his airways until every breath became a desperate gasp for air.

"I don't have to do anything you demand of me," the werewolf snarled, his dark, menacing eyes piercing deep into Draco's blue. "You're the one chained to a wall, I'm the one holding the tether to your life - I suggest you stop setting orders as though you own the place!"

Draco squirmed, his feet skimming off the ground; Fenrir's grip was tight enough to suffocate him, and spots of blue and purple were beginning to obscure his hazy vision. He frantically nodded his agreement and Fenrir let go. Gasping for air, Draco slumped forwards and all of his stomach contents were ejected from him. He gagged as bile splattered onto the ground before him, coating his tongue in a sickly flavour that only made him want to throw up all over again.

"For the record," Fenrir said, stepping away to avoid the puddle of vomit now staining the damp concrete ground, "I don't have anything against you. Not yet anyway. I do what I'm paid to do, and that's it. There's really no point asking questions when I don't know the answers - I'll only get annoyed."

Draco stared at the ground, limp and still heaving. He glanced up, eyelids low and heavy, and set on Fenrir a deadly scowl. "Being a good dog and following all the rules, are we?"

The werewolf growled, baring his teeth. Draco watched his fists clench tight enough to crush bones at his sides. "You ought to be grateful I'm not allowed to kill you, Malfoy, or you'd be battered and bloody by now." Draco didn't doubt it.

"You went to all the trouble of breaking into my home and framing my best friend? All because somebody said they'd pay you a few galleons?"

"More than just a few. Zabini was just an extra measure. I'm going against the Dark Lord, after all, and I'm not too keen on being sent to the grave for it."

"But you didn't kill him," the blonde uttered weakly. "Harry, I mean. You had the opportunity. It was only by luck that he survived that wound. Why not finish the job while you were there?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Draco just about saw the flash of milky white teeth as Greyback grinned slyly. "Who says the objective was to kill him?"

Draco frowned, his chin rested against his chest and his half-open eyes gazed down at the mucky floor beneath his feet. Harry's wound had been methodical, cut in a way that was life threatening, yet treatable. It was a complicated charm to master, and more of a torture devise than a killing technique. It occurred to Draco now, as he stared at the ground with Harry on his mind, that the severity of Potter's wound had seemed oddly convenient - just painful enough to cause a ruckus , but not quite fatal so long as it was treated. Now that he thought about it, Potter's rejection had seemed to begin when Draco had kissed him the following day.

Fenrir began to turn towards the stairs, bored. Draco stood up, just managing to brace himself against the wall as his bare feet sunk into the wet puddle below them. Fenrir was just about visible through the darkness as he approached the first step.

"You didn't want to kill him," Draco said, his voice hoarse and weak. "You did something else, a curse I assume. To... Keep him away from me."

Fenrir hesitated with what could have been a grin on his features, then continued up the stairs.

"Why?"

"I told you," Fenrir said, just a distant voice from up ahead. "You're asking the wrong person."

The light bulb that hung from the ceiling above suddenly snapped out, as though it had been yanked from the concrete and shattered. Fenrir's steps thumped up the stairs, and for a moment the faint light from the door illuminated him.

"Lift the curse!" Draco called after him, voice wavering in desperation yet hot with rage. "Lift it! LIFT IT!"

But then the room was cast into darkness, and Draco was left cold and alone.

-TRANSITION-

Harry tossed and turned - he was trapped in a tornado of dreams that had him queasy and fretting with panic. All he could see were the hazy, flashing memories, each one made up of black and white blotches that darted by, like an old damaged film that was unfocused and set on constant repeat in his mind. He was trapped, unable to drag himself from his nightmares.

Each image he saw revolved around Draco - memories of him, thoughts of him, and often fabled images conjured from his imagination. He saw the boy he'd known at Hogwarts, self-assured and arrogant, wearing a polished exterior that wasn't of his own making. Young Draco traipsed the corridors with his minions at his sides, chuckling slyly at the power he held over them. Harry watched as he reached out to grab a passing student by the neck, uttered the Killing Curse and let the poor child collapse dead to the ground. Harry knew it wasn't a real memory, and yet that didn't still the shock that hit him.

Draco turned and grilled him with a stare, grinning all the while. Then his face aged and he was seventeen, his smile morphing into a look of pain, with frustrated tears staining his pale cheeks. They were in the boys' toilets, each with a wand in hand, and water flooded the tiled floor beneath Harry's shoes. A rage built up like a swelling wound in Harry, and he heard himself utter a spell he'd seen scrawled in a book. Draco fell to the floor and writhe in pain, and Harry was repelled from helping by the same shock he had that day he'd realised what that spell was for.

The rage didn't leave him though. In fact, it welled and intensified, until it made his chest burn with hatred. Behind his sleeping eyelids he saw Draco in the Astronomy Tower, his wand pointed at Dumbledore with a smirk on his features. But Harry had watched Draco's face that night, and it had instead been on the verge of tears, his arm shaking. The memory was false, a manifestation of Harry's subconscious, yet it refused to shift. Instead it grew like a cancer, invading Harry's dreams.

The sound of Draco's laughter filled Harry's head and pounded against his eardrums, as he stood over the blonde, his wand held out and a curse on the end of his tongue. He tried to stop himself, pleaded for whatever possessed him to do this to leave him. But the blonde, laid on the ground with his hands raised in defeat, only urged him.

"Do it," he dared. "Go on. Do it. Say it. Kill me. I deserve it."

Harry screamed, but his limbs wouldn't do as he wished, wouldn't drop the wand and fall to his knees beside Draco as he wanted to. Instead the wand pressed at Draco's chest with a grip steady as rock.

"Avada K-"

Harry would have heard the words clearly, in a voice so alike his own it hurt, had he not cried out loud enough to block it. He screamed, feeling hot tears burn from his eyes and sear down his cheeks, as something shook his shoulders violently from outside his nightmares.

Harry sat up, awakened, and found his breathing fast and ragged, his heart pounding in his chest so loud he could hear it rocket through his skull. His skin was coated in a cold sweat from head to toe, and his messy black hair stuck to his forehead. His eyelashes were wet with fresh tears.

"Harry! Are you alright?"

Alarmed, Harry stifled a cry. The frizz of brown hair in the corner of his vision appeared familiar and his eyes were drawn to it. He drew a breath at the sight of the figure standing beside his bed, mind whirring with confusion. Was this another dream?

"Hermione?" he stuttered, staring back at the hazel brown eyes that bored down at him. Her hair and clothes were dirty and matted, face stained with fatigue. But when he reached out to touch her his fingers found skin that was as tangible as he was. She was real - she was _here._ Without a word he pulled her into a hug and held onto her tighter than he ever had anyone before.

"Hermione? Y-You're here?"

She sat on the bed beside him and buried her head in his shoulder, latching onto him. "I came in through the window."

"You got out of Azkaban?" Hermione nodded. "How?"

Hermione attempted a half-hearted laugh. "It's a rather long story, actually."

She lifted her head but Harry gripped her by the shoulders, staring into her eyes and at the slight curve of her lips into a familiar smile. He still wasn't quite sure whether he was dreaming.

"You... I thought you were dead. Malfoy told me you were alive, but he said you'd be tortured if I didn't do what he said."

Hermione stared back and brushed the sticky hair from Harry's brow. "It's so good to see you," she whispered.

"You too," Harry said. "I missed you. A lot."

Hermione's smile faltered a little. Her brow collapsed into a frown and her gaze found the floor.

"Harry, there's something I need to tell you," she said. "A couple of things actually."

Harry's features folded into a look stained with worry. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, despite the throb of pain at his side and his pounding skull. As Hermione stepped back and the faint moonlight from the window hit her, her skin shone pale and thin, laced with blue veins. The bones of her face jutted out at all angles. It had only been a few days, perhaps a week, since he'd seen her last, and yet it seemed as if a decade had been set upon her face, weighing it down.

"What is it?" he said.

"Well I... I'm pregnant," she stuttered, and watched as Harry's eyes grew wide. He staggered back and pushed the hair back from his forehead; it had hardly been what he was expecting, but also not nearly as devastating. He was almost relieved, but the look on Hermione's face didn't seem nearly as pleased. If anything she appeared afraid, bottom lip fighting not to quiver with the words.

"Is it -?"

"Ron's? Yes. Who else?"

"Wow," Harry breathed. "How long?"

"Two months, maybe three." She stared back at him apprehensively, waiting for him to utter something more than just questions.

"That's great," Harry said, allowing a light smile to brush across his mouth. "Congratulations."

He hugged her again and she pressed her forehead into his shoulder, a sharp breath that sounded like relief muffled in his shirt. But it was followed by the start of a wail, cut short by a gasp and a shake of her head. Harry stepped back to find heavy tears searing down Hermione's cheeks.

"No, Harry," Hermione said, a sob on her breath. "There's something else, how I got out of Azkaban."

She brushed Harry's hands away and reached for the hem of her shirt, bringing it up to reveal her stomach. But whilst her skin was pale and her flesh as sparse as Harry had imagined, he hadn't expected the deep set scars that slashed across her torso. The wounds, most still gouged open and fresh, were gruesome. They littered her abdomen, bloody and ragged like tiny ravines cut into her flesh. Some reached around her sides and others swiped over the small bump that was forming on her stomach, but each one was thick and deep, as though a creature with long, sharp claws had attacked her in her sleep. Harry had seen those kind of scars before, and he knew they only signalled one thing. He drew in a painful breath and stepped back, eyes locked on the bloody scars.

"How...?"

"I... I-I'm a -"

"No," he said, shaking his head. "A _werewolf?"_

Hermione only nodded back, eyes welling up with tears out of her control.

"How did this happen?" Harry demanded.

"It was Fenrir Greyback," Hermione sobbed back. "He offered me a deal to get out of Azkaban, and I was stupid and desperate enough to take it. And now look at me - I'm some kind of monster!"

"No, no, you're not." He stepped back towards her but she recoiled, turning away to swipe the tears from her eyes and bury her head in her palms. Harry was hit with a wave of pain to his abdomen and his face crumpled into a wince. He was glad that she hadn't seen. He stumbled backwards and sat back on the edge of the bed, willing the pain to subside.

"Fuck," he groaned. Hermione turned to look his way, he caught her gaze and stifled a wince at the ever-growing ache. "I'm so sorry, Hermione. We shouldn't have come back. It was a stupid idea."

"Harry," Hermione murmured, her hand moving to rest on her stomach. "I can't feel her any more. The baby, I mean. I haven't since the full moon last night. I think... I think she's gone."

Harry only shook his head. "No," he said. "She's fine. It's going to be OK."

Then another bout of pain hit him, and Harry jolted back as though he'd been punched in the stomach. He collapsed back onto the bed with his hands gripping his stomach and a cry tore from his throat. A hot fire burned through his body, as if his blood was made of gasoline and someone had just held a match to his open wound. He squeezed his eyes shut and made an effort to sit up again as he felt the mattress dip beside him.

"Harry, what is it?" Hermione said, a hand on his shoulder and worry on her tongue. "Are you hurt?"

"No, I'm fine," Harry murmured back, but he knew his words were hardly convincing. "It's nothing, just a scratch -"

The rattle of voices came through the door. Harry's eyes snapped open, and the burning pain in his abdomen gradually subsided. His new guard, an Auror who was older and much sterner than Blaise, stood outside. His distinct, mellow voice slid under the door, aided by another unfamiliar one. The chatter turned Harry's skin pale. A horrible feeling of dread crawled up his spine; If Hermione was caught, Merlin knew what they'd do to her. Harry turned to her with a sense of haste on his tongue.

"You have to get out of here," he told her, voice hushed. He clutched Hermione's hands between his and looked her straight in the eyes. "You got in - can you get out safely? There are wards you know, strong ones. Can you get yourself somewhere safe?"

Hermione stared blankly back at him. "Myself?" she breathed. "You're coming too, aren't you Harry?"

He stared back, the green in his eyes softening. "Well... I wasn't planning -"

"You've got to, Harry," Hermione said. "Come on. You can't really be thinking of staying _here?_ You're hurt, Harry - and don't try and tell me you're not, because I know you're lying. Malfoy's done something to you, hasn't he? What in the world does he think he's doing _marrying_ you in the first place, let alone -"

Suddenly, everything stopped.

A brick wall slammed into Harry's chest. Every cell rang with the impact, sending through him an ice cold chill and banishing any of the searing heat that had burned through him before. Harry looked around as though lost, like everything around him was unfamiliar, then he pressed his palm to his chest. Breath had been stolen from him. He stood motionless, hearing nothing but white noise. He felt different; something had changed. Something had been wiped away, a forcefield lifted from around him. He began to breathe again, slower and deeper than before, and with the flurry of oxygen to his lungs every nerve calmed, every muscle relaxed. A kind of zen made Harry feel as though he was floating.

Idly, his fingers found the ring still clutched around the finger on his left hand. The metal was warm, comforting, and to his mind sprung a million images of Draco Malfoy. His face, his hair, his erratic sense of style, his arrogant smirk, his smile, his voice - every aspect that Harry himself secretly admired. It stunned him - he was able to think these thoughts, and he was struck with no pain. They felt not like invasions in his mind, but like snapshots of happiness ingrained within him. Harry could have cried out in relief; whatever curse had latched itself around his mind before was gone.

"Hermione." He looked up and caught his friend's gaze. She appeared confused by the distant look on his face.

"Harry, you're coming with me, aren't you?" she said somewhat hesitantly. "We're leaving together?"

Harry recognised the desperation in her gaze, laced with fear. He stepped towards her and trapped her fingers in his. It tore at his chest to shake his head.

"I can't," he choked. "I can't leave. It's Malfoy, I'm..." He couldn't say it, knowing the shock and disgust that was sure to flash before Hermione's eyes. The words stifled in his chest, stabbed into place by stubbornness. The grilling pain that had ridged a tear between them was gone, but he still couldn't say it.

"You're better off leaving without me," he said instead. "I'll only slow you down and you really need to get away as quick as you can. I'll be fine."

"What are you talking about?" Hermione snapped. " _Better off?_ You really think I'm about to leave you here, alone? Harry you have to -"

"Hermione, I'm in love with him."

She was silent for a long time. Then uttered: _"What?"_

"I can't leave. I'm in love with Malfoy."

Hermione didn't gasp or cry, or laugh. Her face remained expressionless, frozen with what Harry supposed was shock. Her fingers loosened from his, and when he let go they dropped to her sides. She sprung into a burst of movement, and wiped the hair from her face, eyes distant and gazing through the floor.

"Harry, I-"

As she began to speak, another set of murmurs - louder this time - trickled their way through the door. Harry glanced back, anticipating that someone was bound to burst through the door any moment. He darted from the bed in a sudden haste and towed Hermione along with him towards the window.

"You need to go, now," he told her. "The guard outside is going to come in any moment, and if he sees you..."

Hermione nodded, and stepped back into the shoes on the floor: a hulking pair of boots, several sizes too big.

"Get as far away from here as you can," Harry said. "Try and contact me, somehow - I'll try and respond, but I can't promise anything. Just make sure you're safe, OK?"

Hermione nodded, wordless. Her eyes were still a little damp with tears as she stared up at him, and he pulled her into a quick, reassuring hug.

"I'm sorry," he said as his arms wrapped around her shoulders. She clung on tightly, and her quivering breath met Harry's ear.

"Goodbye, Harry," she choked, and pulled away. Harry blinked, and when he opened his eyes she'd ducked out the window, becoming just another shadow to dust the courtyard below.

-TRANSITION-

Sweat, formed in beads on Draco's forehead. They budded and trailed down his cheeks, covered his face. He balled his clammy hands into fists, still clasped in cuffs above his head, and his chest rose and fell deeply. It wasn't quite terrible enough to be classed as torture, but energy was dwindling, and he knew he couldn't keep at this forever.

Draco stood with his eyes clenched shut, concentrating on the spell, and had been for at least a few hours. The room around him was still clad in darkness, and opening his eyes had much the same effect as closing them. His mind was filled with two words, repeating on a loop - _Accio wand, Accio wand, Accio wand_ \- while every muscle and bone and fibre of Draco's was clenched in concentration, praying for something to happen

But while a few simple spells would usually have been no trouble to Draco even without his trusty wand in hand, this was just too much. He was drugged up and tired with no clue where his wand was being kept and thus no idea how far away it was from him. Charming it to come to him was too much of a strain. He was forced to give in when he could no longer concentrate on the words. He collapsed against his chains and let his knees bend beneath him, chin falling onto his chest. Draco choked on a sob. He allowed hot tears to well up in his eyelids, topping over the edge, tumbling down his face and skirting off his chin. Sobs rocketed through him like a curse, kept craftily silent. He'd practiced silent crying frequently as a child, and he'd become rather good at it over the years.

On the damp, puddled ground below, Draco could hear his salty tears tapping at the existing pools, but he hardly cared. He was exhausted, heart and body torn in two, and he realised now that he yearned for a form of attention he'd been devoid of for years: love. Specifically, love from Harry, whose name alone even set off a metaphysical stabbing pain in Draco's chest that wouldn't stop.

He loved Harry. He had done since he'd first laid his eyes on the boy, in awe that this so-called "Boy Who Lived" was real, and not just an urban legend sparked by the media. His dishevelled dark hair had seemed alluring even then, paired with anxious emerald eyes that bored into others' and shone when he smiled. Draco, bewildered, would watch Harry from across a room, knowing it was impossible yet still wondering if maybe one day they'd be able to at least have a decent conversation without tearing each other's throats out. A conversation with smiling and laughter - perhaps more affection. That possibility had seemed so tantalisingly close just days ago, yet Fenrir's curse had yanked them apart again, tearing away that frail chance Draco had stroked with the tips of his fingers. Now he was here, trapped, and it was entirely possible that he would never get that close to Potter loving him again.

From above, the faintest of sounds tapped at Draco's eardrums. There had been little sound throughout the night, but a murmur of voices now trickled down through the ceiling. Draco's head was too heavy to raise, chin rested against his chest, but he was jolted by the sudden sound of a heated discussion snapping into action. The voices rose into shouts that overlapped each other and slashed like swords at the air. Then conversation was abandoned, and replaced by the thump of fists bashing against skulls.

Draco closed his eyes again. He didn't care about the brawl taking place in the room above, and he would have preferred to be haunted by nightmares and let the night flicker by than stay awake and have to endure every exhausting thought that came to mind. His eyes lulled shut and he let his mind shut off - Until the thump of bodies toppling to the floor caught his attention and yanked him back into consciousness.

He jolted awake and his head shot towards the ceiling. A murmuring voice found his ears, loud and sharp as though someone was calling out a name. Draco strained his ears to listen, as footsteps creaked against the floorboards above him. The person, whoever they were, stood a few metres away from the spot above where he was. If his memory served him correctly, the stood where the door to the cellar ought to have been.

"Draco?"

The blonde heard his name, and his gaze flickered over to the direction from which it came. He rattled the chains strapped around his limbs and surged every ounce of his dwindling energy into making noise.

"Here!" he called, finding his voice had morphed into a hoarse croak. The shuffle of footsteps turned in his direction. "In the cellar! I'm down here!"

From somewhere in the dark ahead, the door was rattled against its hinges, then a spell flung open the lock. It blasted out of its frame, toppled down the stairs, and allowed a stream of piercing light to flood the room below. A figure ducked in, blocking the light for a second as he rushed down the flight of stairs and his footsteps pattered across the wet concrete floor. The tip of his wand sparked with light, and the blazing white beam shone on Draco's features and blinded him. He winced, staring through the light until he spotted the familiar glowing face of Blaise Zabini.

"Blaise," Draco choked, hoping the tear stains down his cheeks weren't too noticeable. "Blaise - h-how did you get here? Weren't you _arrested?"_

Without a word, Blaise aimed his wand at the chains and fired a spell, bursting the cuffs apart along with the ones at his ankles. As the metal clunked to the ground, Draco lowered his arms, aching with the prolonged discomfort, and rubbed at his sore wrists, feeling the soft dents the metal had left.

"I was," Blaise sighed. "They let me go tonight. What happened to you?"

Draco breathed fire through his nostrils, arms dropped and fists clenched at his sides. "Fucking Greyback," he hissed through barred teeth. "He crept up on me, _drugged_ me, brought me to this place!" His gaze flickered up to Blaise's. "I know it wasn't you. The break-in, I mean - and all of it I imagine. It was Greyback, he practically admitted it. He and his hounds injured Potter and put a curse on -"

"Draco, I know," Blaise said. "When they released me, they said the evidence against me was found to be forged, every single detail, right down to casting the spells on my wand. Merlin knows how he did it, but it was him. They found his hair on Potter's cloak, the one you found him with, and even more in Pansy's office. When I got back to the Manor, you hadn't been seen all day, and I figured Greyback might have had something to do with that."

"My wand..." Draco said; seeing Blaise grip his made the blonde feel naked without his own. With a flick of his wrist, Blaise summoned it to him. Draco's wand soared through the archway left by the cellar door and Blaise snatched it out of the air, handing it back. Draco's fingers clutched around it. The two friends looked at each other for a second, before they embraced in a tight, brotherly hug.

"I'm glad you're free," Draco sighed.

"You too."

Upstairs, it appeared as though a tornado had torn through the house. A hallway waited at the top of the stairs, tucked underneath another flight headed to the first floor. The ground floor, comprised of a lounge and adjoining kitchen, was trashed to no end. The front door stood flung open, and on the entrance, dark marks stained the carpet as though it had been singed by a fire. The couch was torn apart by stray spells, and there was a clean, star-shaped hole in the glass of one of the windows, framed by shredded yellow curtains. One rather sparse bookcase had toppled onto the ground, its few books tossed across the floor.

And on the ground, collapsed into a messy heap, was the motionless frame of Fenrir Greyback. One of his wolves was passed out on the couch, another strewn on the tiled kitchen floor. Fenrir's eyes lulled shut, although he still groaned and rubbed at the side of his skull, alive and kicking. Fuelled by rage, Draco stormed over to Fenrir and grabbed him by the collar, yanking his hulking frame off the ground and stirring him with an angry jolt.

"You're a bastard, do you know that?" Draco growled. The words slipped through his barred teeth while the tip of his wand prodded at Fenrir's neck. "You're going to pay for what you did to Potter, you fucking dick!"

"At least I've got the balls to have done everything I have," Greyback spat back, his mouth spreading into a grin around his canine-like teeth. "That's a lot more than anyone can say about you, Malfoy."

In response, Draco snatched his wand from the man's throat and used his fist to punch him in the face instead, catching the side of Greyback's cheekbone with his knuckle. His wrist ached with the impact, but he hardly cared.

"Remove the curse you put on Harry." he demanded.

"Oh. Have you and your lover finally gotten onto a first name basis?"

Draco punched him in the face again - twice. Two solid hits that collided straight with the rock hard edge of Fenrir's jaw. "Shut up!" Draco cursed down at him. "Get rid of the curse! "

Turning his head to the side, Fenrir spat a mouthful of blood out the side of his mouth and a pool of scarlet splattered against the soiled carpet.

"I've already lifted it," he said. "It's gone. I swear."

Draco's jaw clenched in anger. He shook his head. "I don't believe you," he snarled and hit Fenrir again - once, twice, three times.

"I've lifted the curse! Malfoy, it's gone - I told you, I swear!"

Again and again, Draco's knuckles made hard contact with Fenrir's face, as hot tears fuelled by rage stung at his eyes and tumbled down his cheeks. He couldn't stop; his fist had gone numb and he could no longer see the damage he was doing to Greyback's battered features through the haze of liquid that glazed over his eyes. He continued, until someone towed him away, having to grab his flailing arms and restrain him by his sides. When Draco finally stopped, he crumbled into tears, turning away from Fenrir with his hands pressed over his eyes hard enough to make his skull ache.

Blaise turned back to Greyback and stunned him, sending the werewolf into a temporary paralysis that with any luck would last until the other Aurors arrived to arrest him. Blaise crouched beside Draco, pried his friend's fingers away from his face to stop him clawing out his own eyes, and guided him steadily to his feet, a comforting arm set around his shoulders. Draco's hands were shaking violently, he was exhausted, and his heart yearned to see Harry.

"Let's get you home," Blaise suggested, and with a steady hand from his friend, Draco stumbled outside and they Apparated back to the Manor.

-TRANSITION-

Hermione's feet landed on the grass below Harry's window, and her knees quaked slightly beneath her. Crouched down with her palms pressed against the damp grass, her eyes remained trained onto the ground. She sighed, and when she looked up, the Manor, a dark and sullen shadow in the night beside her, appeared larger than before. Its height weighed down on her shoulders and made her limbs seem heavy. It was hard to move, and fatigue made her want to curl up on the ground and sleep her pain away. But Hermione was eager to get away from this place, to escape the thin leering trees and sticky memories that lingered like ghosts. It was only the knowledge that Harry was still caught inside that slowed her, making her feet drag on the ground as she headed back the way she'd come.

The night air, swathed in thick fog, clouded around Hermione and the chill it brought made her shiver. The cold was nothing compared to the cells in Azkaban she'd endured, but something about the silence put a suspicious irk in Hermione's confidence; her muscles tensed, weak legs prepared to run from an attack. She crept along, on the lookout for the hulking figure of Greyback. He ought to have been here, waiting for her. He'd said he would be here when she came out of the Manor - but then again _she_ had promised to get Harry out. She spied for the werewolf in the shadows, looking out for his mane of hair and stubbly chin, but the only shadows stretched out from the Manor itself.

A gate loomed up ahead, the same one she and Fenrir had climbed earlier to get in. She could still smell his scent lingering, a mixture of the gristly smell of tree bark and sweat, but she couldn't tell if it was just the lingering memory of him from earlier, or if he was out there amongst the trees, watching her from afar. Hermione hauled herself up the fence with no hesitation and sat with one leg on either side, staring off into the distance. Was Greyback out there, waiting somewhere to step out from behind a bush and startle her? Or was he gone, set off somewhere else having carried no care for her in the first place? She imagined the latter was more likely.

There was a shout from afar, and Hermione's shoulders stiffened, head whipping towards the sound. She had barely caught sight of a pair of hazy, distant figures rushing out of the Manor before a flash of red light erupted around her and she was flung backwards by a spell, stunned into a sudden paralysis that had her tumbling over the wrong side of the fence and falling ten feet down onto the grass below. It hardly cushioned her fall. She fell shoulder first and heard the crack of bones beneath her as the rest of her body quickly followed. She could sense pain rooting itself in her shoulder but couldn't move her arm - couldn't move anything for the stunning spell that had been shot at her from a hundred yards away.

Mind reeling and breaths taunt from panic, Hermione's vision began to blur, as the sound of approaching footsteps shattered her eardrums. A figure, hazy and unrecognisable, stood over her, staring down at her face with its head tipped slightly to the side. Its frame seemed familiar, but Hermione's thoughts were slowing, spinning, unable to form coherent ideas - until the image focused and a head of bright ginger hair made her breath catch suddenly in her throat.

"R-Ron," she stuttered. Her voice wavered; she couldn't tell whether she'd even said it aloud. Her eyes grew wide, taking in the image of him standing there: hair dirty and face covered in light ginger stubble, wearing the same mud covered hoodie and jeans as the day he'd died. His face was complete with the massive gash in his forehead, blood dripping down his face in a river of scarlet, and another blood stain tore through his blue hoodie, slashed across his chest. They were remnants of the exact injuries he'd had the last time Hermione had seen him, motionless on the ground after being shot with the killing curse.

Hermione felt sobs welling in her chest, weighing her to the ground. Tears stung at her eyes as she stared, unable to tear her gaze away from him. "Ron, is that you?" she asked again, but the ghostly figure said nothing in response. Hermione gulped; It wasn't real, as hard as she tried to cling onto the hope that it could be.

The figure disappeared. Not in the same flash of movement as someone Apparating, nor the dark cloud of smoke that appeared when Death Eaters like Fenrir did so. The memory of Ron projected in front of her eyes just faded away into nothing, leaving only empty air in the place it had stood.

Two new, unfamiliar figures approached, taking the memory's place. Wands outstretched, one shot a spell her way and Hermione found her arms and legs tied with rope. The figures hauled her up by the forearms and dragged her away, stumbling on uneasy feet. She glanced around, but the world was becoming numb and her vision was out of focus, clouded this time by thick, heavy tears. Fenrir wasn't coming to save her - he didn't care, just as she'd suspected - and Harry had abandoned her too.

Hermione was dragged away by the rough hands of the Aurors, imprisoned, and torn from a world that seemed to hate her anyway.

-TRANSITION-

The front door of the Manor swung open, and stumbling in came Draco Malfoy, supported - but mostly carried - by Blaise. Draco's head was heavy, and his body was close to collapsing.

"Harry," he murmured to Blaise, who held his friend up by an arm around his waist, one of Draco's thrown over his shoulder. "I need to see Harry."

"No, you need to sleep this off, " Blaise argued. "Merlin, I don't know what drug they gave you but it must have been bloody strong."

He dragged Draco up the stairs, struggling to keep him upright. As they reached the landing, Draco reached out to grab hold of the bannister and towed himself down the hall towards the room where Harry was staying, stumbling as he went.

"Draco, what are you doing?" Blaise called. "You're not going to make it on your own. Wouldn't it be better to sleep this off and see him in the morning?"

Blaise followed and reached to take Draco's arm, but the blonde slapped his hands away. He moved slower and more clumsily than a drunk man. He had to brace himself against the wall for support, eyes only half open and limbs slipping from every surface like jelly.

"No, I have to see him now," Draco insisted, stubborn as always. "Go home, Blaise. Have the night off. I'm sure you're desperate to see Pansy again - she's very worried. You should hurry to her. Go, I'm fine."

"Draco, you know I can't. You're going to end up hurting yourself if you go any further -"

The door to Harry's room swung open.

"You don't have to go anywhere."

Both heads turned, one a little sharper than the other. Harry stepped into the hallway, his dark hair rustled into a nest of messy curls. His eyes sought for Draco's, his gaze barely flickering over Blaise, and the blonde stared back with wanton desire and numbing relief painted all over his pale features.

"Harry." The word scampered through Draco's lips and he stumbled forwards. Harry rushed to keep him from falling, and Draco's arms grappled around his neck, head buried into his shoulder. Harry wrapped his own arms around Draco, hugged him close and squeezed his eyes shut.

Blaise stood frozen at the top of the stairs; he wasn't quite sure if he ought to stay and make sure they were OK, or give them some privacy.

"Harry," Draco murmured. He lifted his head and gazed up into Harry's eyes, fingers stroking his chin. "You're here, you're OK."

Harry nodded, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as Draco stroked lightly at the stubble on his cheek.

"You're letting me touch you," Draco whispered as though he couldn't quite believe it. "You're not screaming. This..." He traced his thumb along the bone of Harry's jaw. "It doesn't hurt?"

Harry shook his head. His eyes bored into Draco's, wide and full, swathed in emerald green. Draco cupped Harry's cheek, a little hesitant at first, and leaned in, close enough to be within breaths of Harry's lips. Harry closed the rest of the gap and pressed his lips softly onto Draco's, igniting a moan from the blonde's throat. He tied both his arms around Harry's neck and hung onto him, lips pressing deeper.

Blaise shuffled, a little uncomfortable. He supposed they'd be OK now; they didn't need him lingering down the hall. With a smile cast in their direction, he ducked away without a word. Neither of them realised he'd left, encompassed in each other's company. Draco's lips scampered over Harry's in a series of desperate kisses, and the dark haired man towed him closer with a tight arm around his waist. Tears poured from Draco's eyes without permission, seeping between their lips and making the kiss taste salty and wet.

"I love you," Draco uttered through a sob against Harry's lips, his emotions overwhelmed with the sudden relief, all the worry and tension that had stifled him swept away all in one clean swipe. Love surged through him, and Harry only kissed him harder.

"I love you," Harry said back, their lips barely parting long enough for the words to emerge. A great smile emerged on Draco's features, and it spread onto Harry's mouth too. They kissed, forgetting anything outside of their embrace.

From the other end of the hall, two piercing blue eyes stung with worry spied through a tight gap between a door and frame. Once the two figures disappeared into a bedroom, she eased open the door and sneaked into the hall, her long blonde hair draped over her shoulders, tall frame dressed in a long, silky robe. Her expression held a look of deep resentment, and her shoulders heaved as she sighed. The Manor was not at rest, and Narcissa - stood staring at the spot where her son had kissed his husband - could sense danger lurking in the air, creating a strange cloud of darkness that hung over their heads like death sentences. Her whole body shivered.

Lulling her eyes shut, Narcissa raised her wand and silently restored the wards surrounding the Manor to their full capacity. A lot had happened in the few hours they'd been down, and none of it had been enough - _he_ was still here, after all. Perhaps it was for the best; her son seemed happier now than he had been in years. But somehow, Narcissa couldn't help but worry that this wouldn't end well - for any of them.

A/N: Everyone's back together again - yay! But more is yet to come - stay tuned, and hopefully the next chapter will be a little more positive. Thanks for reading so far!


	12. Chapter 12: Bliss

Chapter 12: Bliss

Late morning sunlight streamed in on Draco, and his bare skin glowed with the warmth. His eyelids stung with the remnants of sleep weighing them down, willing him to fall back into dreams again. But there was a warmth beside him, and a hand against his side stroking lightly over his skin. Draco's lips curved into a smile as he lifted his eyelids to the light.

The familiar face of Harry Potter gazed over at him, a lazy smile across his features. He laid on his side, mirroring Draco, with one arm bent beneath his head and the other tracing the dip of Draco's waist with gentle, calloused fingers. His emerald eyes shone like gems, and surrounding them, the golden frames of his glasses glittered in the sunlight. Harry's expression brightened as Draco opened his eyes.

"Hello," he whispered.

"Morning, my love," Draco mumbled back, and watched as Harry's mouth grew into a wider smile, cheeks turning slightly pink with a warm blush. "Were you watching me sleep?"

"I might have been."

"Oh, you _might_ have? Well that's just not good enough," Draco teased. He closed his eyes and buried himself a little deeper under the duvet. "I'll just go back to sleep whilst you make up your mind."

"No, wake up." Harry cupped Draco's face and he opened his eyes again. Harry sighed. "Your eyes are so beautiful," he whispered, words echoing in Draco's ears like a song.

"I know," Draco smiled, and grabbed Harry's hand from his side. He grazed a thumb over the silver band that wound itself around Harry's ring finger, instilled with a blue gem. "Don't ever forget it."

As Harry's gazed at the ring, Draco placed his left hand over the back of Harry's, interlocking their fingers. Their complimenting rings laid side by side, their edges barely touching, one shining emerald green and the other an icy shade of blue.

"Yours aren't so bad," Draco said as he gazed back into Harry's eyes. The Gryffindor caught his gaze, still smiling. But Draco's eyes couldn't help but trail downwards, brushing over Harry's bare chest and stomach to the wound gashed into his side. Harry's chest was littered with bristly black hairs, much like the coarse stubble that covered his chin, a little more than a mere shadow after a few days without shaving, but Draco didn't mind that - he almost preferred it. The only thing that irked his conscience now was that wound, turned pink by scarring, but still large and wide enough to make Draco worry.

Harry caught him looking at it and sighed, wishing to brush away all of Draco's concerns. "It's fine," he assured the blonde, although his words did little to soothe the heaviness of Draco's brow. "It's all healed now, completely painless. Look." Harry prodded the wound with his fingers, gripping the flesh around it. He saw Draco's eyebrows jerk, but cupped the man's face and stared into his eyes.

"It doesn't hurt. Not one bit, I promise you. Now would you please stop looking at me like that, it makes me feel like a child."

Draco smiled weakly. "OK," he whispered, and pressed his lips into Harry's, whose fingers stroked at Draco's cheeks and then trailed down to his neck and shoulders. His lips followed, skirting along the hot skin of his neck and nip lightly on his flesh. Harry's hands glided over his shoulders and down his arms and Draco gripped at his sides. He loved the sensation of Harry's lips against his skin, descending lower to his chest. Harry's hands squeezed Draco's for a moment as they slid past, before he sat up, gripped the blonde's hips and hoisted the smaller man onto his lap.

Harry knelt with Draco perched on his lap, legs tied around his waist. The Gryffindor pulled Draco closer, both palms pressed against his bare back and hot fingers burning against the warm flesh. Their chests were flush against each other, and Harry tugged Draco into a kiss before he could say a word. His fingers clawed at Draco's back, and reached the waistband of his boxers to drag them back, revealing his ass cheeks.

"What are you doing?" Draco murmured into Harry's lips, hands at the other man's neck.

"Having some fun," Harry grinned. "Why? Something wrong?"

"Maybe I don't like it when you top."

"You didn't seem to mind last time."

"Hmm... But don't you think it's my turn, Potter?"

Without waiting for an answer, Draco tackled Harry onto his back and kissed him profusely again, legs straddling him at the waist. Harry's hands rubbed up and down Draco's sides and their hips ground against one another, each growing tense with longing. Draco's hand wedged between them, reaching into Harry's pants and feeling his cock grow hot and hard at his touch. He was compelled to sit up, and shuffled back so that Harry's crotch was ahead of him. He released the dick from its boxer-shaped cage and curled his thin fingers around its shaft. Gripping ever so slightly, he pumped up and down, fingers glossing over the damp head whenever they grew near enough. Harry let out an indistinct cry of pleasure, head tilted back against the pillows and his own hand gripped around Draco's.

Then the bedroom door flew open.

"Good morning! I was wondering when you two would -"

Draco froze, and his head whipped around to see Blaise stood at the door, wide eyes staring upon the unfortunate scene he'd just walked into. Startled, Draco tumbled forward onto Harry's chest. He scrambled for the duvet and pulled it up over the two of them, eyes burning with loathing aimed straight at Blaise.

"What the _fuck_ are you doing?" Draco demanded. Harry said nothing, mouth ran dry as his cheeks reddened with hot blush. Blaise's lips parted as though he was going to say something, but not a breath left his tongue. He darted from the room and drew the door shut behind him.

Draco shot out of bed, tugging on a silk robe that hung from the back of the door. "Sorry, you're going to have to excuse me for a minute," he grumbled to Harry.

"Hurry back," Harry said.

As Draco stepped out into the hall, Blaise made a futile effort to stifle his laughter behind a hand. His shoulders quaked and his poorly contained laughter seeped through the edges of his mouth, making him smirk.

"What the _hell_ do you think you're doing, Blaise!" Draco demanded, but he only seemed to make the other man grin even wider. "Storming in like that - do you have any knowledge of _privacy?!"_

"To be fair, I didn't _storm_ anywhere," Blaise argued, still fighting to hide his smirk. "I just came to check up on you. Given recent history you both could have been kidnapped and brutally murdered overnight - excuse me for worrying."

" _You_ will be the one brutally murdered if you invade my privacy by _another inch,_ Zabini!"

"And how many inches are there, exactly?"

"Fuck off!" Draco threw a hard punch at Blaise's shoulder. His friend hardly flinched with the impact, but Draco's anger soothed a little with the outburst.

"You're feeling better then?" Blaise asked, rubbing lightly at his shoulder.

"Much," Draco said. "And so is Harry. Thank you, for last night."

"Of course. You know I'm here if you need me."

"Now, if you don't mind," Draco said, "I will be promptly returning to my husband. And I'd appreciate it if we weren't interrupted this time."

"I'll make sure of it," Blaise said dutifully as Draco headed back to his bedroom. "Have fun."

The bathroom door laid straight ahead of Draco, just slightly ajar, as he traipsed back into the bedroom. He hadn't showered since leaving the cellar last night, and as he ran a hand through his hair, he could feel the dirt and grease latched onto his locks. Harry laid on the bed watching him, skin and lips so kissable that Draco almost melted. He wished to tie a leash around Harry's neck and have those lips constantly at his beck and call.

"Come back to bed," Harry pleaded, but as tempting as the offer was, Draco hardly liked the idea of laying in filth for any longer.

"I'm sorry, love, I need to shower," Draco sighed. "But you're welcome to join me."

Harry's eyes lit up at the idea. "I'd be happy to."

-TRANSITION-

The bathroom door eased shut behind them, and with a flick of Draco's wand, the shower started running, its thick pellets of water pattering down on the plastic floor. Draco turned to Harry, who stood waiting by the door, his eyes trained on Draco's back and glistening with longing when the blonde turned around. Draco moseyed towards him, and plucked the glasses delicately from his face.

"You shouldn't be needing these," Draco said, and placed the glasses on the counter beside the sink. When he turned back, his fingers brushed over Harry's shoulders and down his torso, playing with the hem of his boxers and toying with the thick, coarse hairs beneath. He let Harry smother his lips with a kiss, and brush the robe from his shoulders. Draco smiled as he pulled away, then kicked off his underwear and darted into the shower.

The water pricked at Draco's skin, slightly cooler than he'd been expecting. The pellets fired like bullets onto his back, drenching every inch of his skin. Draco wiped blonde locks from over his eyes, as a pair of familiar hands found his waist. Lips kissed Draco's neck from behind, and Harry's hands shifted, gripping his ass cheeks. Those palms were soft and warm; Draco could feel his crotch pulsating. He turned, and Harry's lips were there, waiting for him, deliciously soft. Their mouths moulded together, Harry's tender hands stroked Draco's back, and the blonde pushed him to the wall by the shoulders. Their bodies became flush from chest to thigh, and both men groaned in pleasure at the contact.

"Should we continue where we left off?" Harry suggested.

"Hm." Draco kissed him again and pushed his crotch softly against Harry's. "Where was I? Here, I think." His hand slid between them and grasped Harry's cock once again. His fingers stroked lazily, and Harry's head tipped back to rest against the wall behind him.

Draco dropped to his knees. Sure, he'd been insistent on topping before, but having Harry reduced to putty in his hands by pleasure was so much more gratifying. His bent legs slid a little on the wet floor of the shower; he grabbed onto Harry's legs, fingers digging lightly into the flesh of the other man's thighs. As his hands grazed lightly against the bottom of his ass cheeks, Draco's tongue slid out through his lips and pressed against the head of Harry's cock. His tongue swirled around it, sensing the warmth emitting from the skin and the heartbeat that pulsed down its shaft. Draco's breath deserted him. Before he realised, he'd engulfed Harry all at once, and the dark haired man let out a gasp that morphed quickly into a deep moan.

Draco made sure to take his time. Harry grappled for the back of his head and combed through the blonde hair, his grip tightening every so often as Draco's lips trailed back and his tongue teased the head of Harry's cock. The blonde leaned back into Harry's touch and the fingers stroked his skull, but with a groan Harry pressed Draco's mouth back onto him. A little hesitant, Draco pushed the cock further than before, until he could feel the sensitive tip tickling the back of his throat. He resisted the urge to gag for as long as he could bare, but the sound of Harry's consequential moans diminished his focus and he leaned back again, his tongue licking the underside of the shaft from base to head as he went.

"Wait," Harry gasped. "Wait, no, stop - I'm gonna come."

Draco looked up and scoffed. "Isn't that the whole point of this exercise?"

The former Gryffindor just shook his head, unable to form any kind of explanation, and instead dragged Draco up from the floor. Harry accepted a firm kiss, but then pulled Draco away by the waist and pressed him against the wall, chest first. The tiles were cold, icily so, but with the warmth of Harry's hands still holding his hips, Draco forget to care.

Harry's fingers dug into Draco's sides, and the water continued to patter down on them. His cock was wet with only Draco's lingering saliva and the water from the shower, and though his intentions were fairly clear, he froze.

"I don't know if this will -"

"Do it," Draco breathed. He was throbbing with longing, anticipating the familiar sensation of Harry inside him. Granted, with no preparation and barely any lubrication he wasn't even sure if it would work, but he couldn't take a moment longer waiting. "Harry, do it."

He hesitated a moment longer. "Tell me if it hurts."

"OK."

Draco hissed as Harry thrust into him; a pain shot through his colon and up his spine. His fingers tried to grip at the wall, but slid away as he realised there was nothing more than tile to hold onto. Harry pulled back and then thrust again, and the friction felt almost like burning. He wished for a moment that he hadn't lapped away the pre-come that might have made this a little easier. For all he tried he couldn't stifle the slight cry of pain that burst from him.

"I'm hurting you," Harry said and made a careful attempt to pull out. But Draco reached back and grabbed the back of Harry's thigh, tying their bodies together and forcing Harry to press into him again. This time, Draco moaned with the sensation that drilled deep into his core.

"I'm sorry," Harry murmured into his ear, pressing a kiss to the corner of Draco's jaw and then another to his neck. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry if it hurts."

"No," Draco whispered back. Despite the initial pain, the sensation had grown into a mind-numbing euphoria, and the cold tiled wall smothering Draco's chest only made the warmth of Harry, pressed into his back, even more comforting. "No, Harry, it's beautiful."

Harry continued, ever careful. Draco rocked forward with every thrust, his head lulling back against Harry's shoulder. Harry's fingers gripped like claws into his sides; Draco could tell that he was about to come. Then Harry's moans filled the air, echoing off the tiles, and he exhaled slowly as he released.

Harry's arms encircled Draco's waist, and his chin fell onto Draco's shoulder, pressing heated kisses on his neck. It took him a moment to realise that Draco had yet to release, and he uncurled his arms from around Draco's waist. One hand wrapped its fingers around Draco's cock and the other rubbed the inside of his thigh.

"It's OK," Draco said, content with just learning back against Harry and neglecting his erection entirely. But Harry only shook his head and continued stroking.

"No, it's not," he murmured back, and despite his objections, the blonde the made no effort to push his hands away. They stroked and massaged, beautifully soft yet calloused in places. Harry's hands were larger than Draco's, round where his were thin and bony. Soon Draco was gasping for breath, his eyes trained on Harry's hands as they worked, unable to draw his gaze away.

Harry switched hands and used his left to grip Draco's shaft, whilst his right cupped and massaged his balls. At the change, Draco could feel the pressure of warmed metal against an already pulsing vein, and his breath hitched. Harry's ring - he could see it, glistening in the light, and just as warm and thrilling as every inch of Harry's skin, as though it had become a part of him. Draco grasped a hand around Harry's and made him grip the shaft harder. He moaned and laid his head back on the other man's shoulder, too heavy to hold it up. Harry pressed kisses to his neck again and uttered words into his ear. Draco's senses were overridden, and all he heard were murmurs, but the sound drove him closer to the edge. The ball of pressure at the bottom of his stomach throbbed with every movement, before it released and splattered all over the tiled wall ahead.

Draco cried out, and leaned back onto Harry's chest. The Gryffindor held him, before turning Draco so that his back was against the wall and kissing him on the lips, mouth engulfing his. When he pulled away, Harry's arms returned to Draco's waist, and the blonde rested his own on Harry's shoulders. Draco's hands buried themselves in the nest of messy, and now wet, black hair.

"Did you really think I was going to let you do all that for me and not get off yourself?" Harry said, a mere utterance in Draco's ear. "What do you think I am - a monster, or just unbelievably selfish?"

"Oh, selfish for sure," Draco joked. "I've never had a thing for monsters." He went quiet for a minute, fiddling with the shorter curls that formed the hairline at the back of Harry's neck. "I wouldn't have minded, you know."

Harry shook his head. "I would have."

They stayed under the water together until their skin had turned to wrinkles and they were forced to get out. They rubbed each other dry and got dressed. Draco's clothes seemed to cling to him more than before, constrictive around his chest and cold compared to the sizzling warmth of Harry's skin. He would have loved to spend forever in that shower with Harry, but alas, life went on.

-TRANSITION-

"What's wrong?"

Harry lifted his head from Draco's chest. He'd assumed that the blonde was asleep, but his voice, littered with concern, cut through the silence and his chin lowered to look at Harry's face.

"Huh?"

"You're frowning, and you keep sighing. What is it?"

"Oh." Harry looked down, eyes dragging across the rug on the floor to avoid looking Draco in the eye. They'd been laying here all afternoon, latched together on the couch, warmed by the fire and each other's body heat. They'd talked for a while, but drifted into a comfortable silence - one so comfortable that Harry's mind had begun to wander. He didn't want to tell Draco what he was thinking; he didn't want to voice it at all. Perhaps if he didn't say it, he'd forget that he wasn't just imagining Hermione alone and on the run, but that he was picturing reality.

"Nothing," he said.

"I can tell when you're lying to me, Potter," Draco teased somewhat light-heartedly, the ghost of a smile flickering over his lips. Then his voice became softer, worried, trying to pry the truth from Harry's mind with his gentle words. "What are you thinking about?"

Harry hesitated, then sighed, "Hermione."

"Granger again?" Draco said. He let out his own heavy sigh. "I'm sorry. I haven't had a chance to ask if you can visit her yet, but I will. First chance I get. I promise."

Harry shook his head, and a sharp laugh left his lips. Draco didn't know that Hermione had escaped, but even so the idea of him visiting her - wherever she was now seemed preposterous. "She doesn't want to see me," Harry uttered, not planning on letting the blonde hear.

But Draco studied him, wearing a tentative smile as though he didn't quite know how to react. "Why in Merlin's name would you think that?"

Harry couldn't bear to lay still any longer; he sat up and ran a hand through his hair. "You don't know the horrible things I've done, Malfoy," he murmured. "You wouldn't understand."

 _"I_ don't understand?" Draco sat up with him, and placed a hand on Harry's back. "That curse must have stolen your logic if you think I don't know something about doing terrible things." Harry glanced back at him, taking in his light smile and frowning eyes, unable to smile back so easily. He shook his head and his eyes returned to the floor.

"Honestly, Potter?" Draco said. He scoffed, and looked away in disbelief. "You think you've done worse things than I have? What do you take me for - a _saint?_ I am a Death Eater, Harry, I do the Dark Lord's bidding - or perhaps you'd forgotten that? A Death Eater is designed to do terrible things, taught to, trained to. I'd be willing to bet that I've committed more sins in the past _year_ than you have in your entire life."

Harry shifted to face him. There was a light smile across Draco's features, but beneath laid a painful sincerity. Harry raised a hand to cup the side of Draco's face and grazed a thumb over his cheek. The weight of Draco's actions dragged down the corners of his smile; it quickly dispersed, fading into the same deep, mournful look of helplessness that had haunted Harry's dreams since the night Dumbledore had died.

But Draco had changed since then - Harry could see it in the thin line of blue around his dilated pupils, feel it on the tips of his fingers as they rubbed his back. Draco's pride seemed to have died along with his father, and he'd emerged laced with scars, waiting for someone to tell him that everything he thought of himself wasn't true.

"I love you anyway," Harry whispered.

"Yes," Draco's easy smile returned as he leaned in for a kiss. "Because you're an idiot, Potter."

Draco's lips caressed against Harry's and made him want to cry. He gripped the back of Draco's neck and towed him closer, draping his other arm over the blonde's shoulder. When his lips left Draco's he pressed another kiss to his cheek, then sat back to find that Draco was still distantly smiling.

"So, tell me," Draco said. "What _terrible_ things do you think you've done?"

Harry looked away again. He wasn't sure he wanted to tell anyone about Hermione's visit, but he felt guilty lying, especially to Draco. "Last night..."

Draco's eyes turned worrisome. He took Harry's hand in his. "What is it?"

"I saw Hermione."

Harry watched Draco's expression freeze, and his grip loosened a little. "What?"

"She escaped from Azkaban, climbed in through the window. She wanted me to come with her, to go on the run again. I stayed here instead. I deserted her."

"Granger? You didn't -" _Tell me._ Those must have been the words on the tip of Draco's tongue. But a knock at the door stole his attention away, rattling through the air and quaking Harry to the bone.

Draco glanced back at the door and sighed. He stood up, and his gaze trailed back to Harry with confusion on his brow. But in the end he turned back to the door.

"I'm sorry, I'll be back in a moment," Draco said, but he chose not to leave a kiss on Harry's lips before skirting out the door.

-TRANSITION-

Yet again, Blaise stood outside. Draco huffed at the sight.

"You again?" he said, receiving an apologetic jerk of Blaise's eyebrows in response. "Blaise, I love you - but this is bordering on harassment."

"Your mother sent me," Blaise said, ignoring his joke. "There's a court hearing you've been requested to attend. Don't shoot the messenger."

"Court? _Today?"_ Draco sighed. "I was hoping to spend the rest of the day with Harry."

"Well it begins in two hours, so you ought to get there soon."

"I'll be there," Draco muttered. Court was the last place he wished to spend his afternoon; caught in Harry's embrace seemed like a more appealing option, with his arms around the other man's waist or neck - he didn't mind, as long as their limbs were intertwined and their skin touched in every possible place. The cold wooden chairs were nothing compared to the comfortable warmth of Harry's skin, and the end of Draco's pencil was nowhere near as satisfying to wrap his lips around as Potter's - well..

"I need to change," Draco said. "Just give me a minute to say goodbye to Harry." Blaise nodded back, and Draco bowed back into the room, finding Harry stood by the fire, his hand rubbing the back of his neck as though there was an irritation there he couldn't quite reach. His gaze trailed off into the distance, staring at empty air, and his senses seemed numb, unbeknown to Draco's approach.

The blonde placed a hand on each of Harry's shoulders. Harry glanced up at him, and Draco's grip trailed down and reached the man's elbows, drawing him nearer by them. Harry appeared confused, but he didn't pull away as Draco laced their fingers together and placed his head on Harry's shoulder. Draco had no intention of saying goodbye, not yet; he had a conversation to finish first.

"Tell me about last night," he said, feeling Harry tense at the idea. "What happened with Granger?"

"Hermione," Harry corrected. "I woke up and she was standing over me. She'd climbed in through the window, and she was wearing these clothes that looked like rags - they were dirty, hardly fitted her. She told me about... Azkaban. How she got out."

"And how exactly did she do that?"

There was an uncomfortable shift in his stance, shoulders tense.

"Fenrir Greyback turned her into a werewolf."

Draco lifted his head from Harry's shoulder suddenly, and his face scrunched up in confusion. "Greyback?" he uttered in wonder. "Why would he turn Granger? He's notorious for attacking children, not saving women from Azkaban..."

Draco let the thought tumble around in his mind for a moment. "But it does seem oddly coincidental that Granger came to you the very same night he decided to kidnap yours truly." A look of deep pondering was cast over Draco's gaze, and he could feel it narrowing his vision.

"Fenrir's up to something," he proclaimed. "Merlin knows what, but -" He looked at Harry, the full profile of his face and dark hair stark against the green wallpaper.

"Harry," Draco asked. "Why didn't you go with her?"

Harry scoffed, as though trying to dismiss the question. "What do you mean, _why_?"

"Well, she's your friend - close, I assume, or at least you used to be. And you hated me. Why didn't you just leave? Escape me, the Dark Lord - everything?"

Harry watched his bare feet scuff against the carpet rug beneath them. "I didn't hate you," he murmured. "It was painful to touch you or look at you, sometimes even just to think of you, but that doesn't mean I didn't want to."

"But even still, you had every reason to leave. Your best friend asked you to leave this hell with her and you decided to stay here with me?"

Harry glanced up sheepishly, as though embarrassed by the answer.

"Oh Harry, you can't have been in your right mind," Draco sighed. "Me over her? I'm not sure whether to be proud or ashamed."

"I couldn't leave," Harry explained. "I just couldn't bear the idea. I don't want to go on the run again - I love Hermione, but I would much rather stay safe here with you." His fingers rubbed hard at his temples. "I know it was selfish but -"

"No," Draco said, shaking his head and petting Harry's hands away from his face. He placed them instead on his waist and pulled Harry into a warm embrace. The Gryffindor dug his face into Draco's neck as the blonde held him, and neither spoke for a long while, unsure of what more either was meant to say.

"She's going to be all alone again - and it's my fault. All of it," Harry murmured against Draco's shoulder. "If I hadn't suggested that we come back - if I'd just figured all this out _four years_ ago - !"

Draco held him tighter and shook his head. "The war wasn't up to you," he said fiercely. "I don't care what some prophecy says, defeating the Dark Lord was never going to happen with everyone piling their expectations on you. It's not your fault. There will always be bad in the world, there has to be balance, and without evil there wouldn't be any good. There's nothing you can do to stop that, and blaming yourself doesn't help anybody."

He paused, and they stewed in silence. "You sound like Dumbledore," Harry teased in a whisper, voice weakened by tears.

"Besides, I-I'm glad you chose me," Draco admitted, his cheek pressed against Harry's dark, matted locks. Harry lifted his head and gazed at him. A light smile might have gleamed in his eyes, but it quickly turned to urgency.

"You can't tell anyone that she's out," Harry pleaded. "They might not know just yet, but they will eventually -"

"Yes, probably sooner than you'd think."

"- and if they do they'll send Aurors on her trail. They'll kill her if they find her. I have to give her a head start, at least, or she'll have no chance of getting away."

Draco stroked his fingers through the hair at the back of Harry's head. "I'll be honest, I never much cared for Granger," he admitted. "But you do. And I can hold my tongue if you want me to."

Harry gulped. "Thank you," his weakened voice uttered.

And with that Draco pulled out of the hug and held Harry at arm's length, staring into his emerald green eyes. "I have to go," he announced. "Duty calls. But I'll be home tonight, I swear."

Harry nodded back, and Draco leaned in sharply to kiss him goodbye. Their lips collided, then parted reluctantly. Draco longed to stay and perhaps lengthen the kiss into another few hours of bliss. He smiled back at Harry as he closed the door, leaving behind a silent promise that those dreams would later be fulfilled.


	13. Chapter 13: Sentencing

Chapter 13: Sentencing

As he stepped into the courtroom, Draco's head span, overwhelmed by husky mist created by Death Eaters. It had been a while since he'd attended court, and the years weighed heavy on the furniture. The wooden benches he'd grown used to over long summers - when he'd reluctantly accompanied his father here - were scuffed, the ends splintering into thick brushes of broken wood. The struts had been battered by years of wear, and the paintings and tapestries hung on the wall had suffered too, torn down and left in a heap on the floor. Benches lined the edges of the hall, and in its centre a circular floor of blue, green and white tiles, each speckled with dirt and shallow dents. On the one small wall that wasn't lined with wooden stands stood a metal cage, cylindrical and gripped tightly shut by a dozen bolts, wards and spells.

The appearance of the court may have altered due to the war, but it was the etiquette that had really suffered - it seemed to have been altogether forgotten by the visitors today. Only Draco sat; Every other person stood, filling the room with their chatter and haughty laughter. Death Eaters Apparated into the room from every corner, each swathed in dark clouds of black dust, and sending fragments of it Draco's way as they swooned off into a nearby conversation. None of the customary suits of red and black adorned these men, unlike the old Ministry. Instead, the crowds wore a swarm of dark robes, jesting as though they were in a pub instead of a courtroom. It seemed strange to think that many of these people were old men, decades older than Draco yet acting more like children than he ever had.

Draco, meanwhile, sat alone on a bench in the corner, chin high and staring straight ahead to avoid inadvertently catching any of their gazes. He knew that a slight glance at the wrong person in the wrong way at the wrong second would be his defeat, and these men would stalk over to offer him a piece of their mind, forcing their thoughts into his ears whether he liked it or not. Their voices were like daggers to him, even the softer ones piercing and prodding, trying to suck from him a million secrets from the most mundane of questions. Though he knew none were aimed at him, their tones made him shiver. Every single one of these men hated him. Even Crabbe and Goyle, once friends, had found new allegiance and barely spoke to him any more - although, granted, neither of them were here, each too dim to understand what a hearing even was.

Draco was alone. He sometimes wished that Blaise was a Death Eater, just so that he would have someone to accompany him to events such as this. But he would never want to put that burden on anyone, much less a friend. He wouldn't dare scorch Blaise's skin with that black mark of painful commitment. If he could have gone back in time, Draco would never have accepted it for himself; he didn't belong here, and he never would.

The deep chatter had begun to numb Draco's eardrums when a sudden wisp of smoke, larger and fuller than any other, swept around the room and landed in the centre of the tiled floor. The room plunged into silence. Every pair of eyes turned its way and watched the smoke settle, like a piece of silk dropping to the ground to reveal the pale figure hidden within its sullen depths. Voldemort, face sickly pale and shoulders rigid and square as always, stood in the centre of the crowd. His frame was gaunt and bony as though he was being steadily eaten from the inside out. His eyes, red with murderous curiosity, glared out of his skull, and scanned the room from one end to the other, unblinking to ensure that he met every gaze in the room. Not a single person dared to look away or utter a word as he did so.

"Friends," the Dark Lord hissed through sharp teeth that formed an angular grin. "Is this a court hearing or a casual gathering, I wonder?" His followers made not a sound. "We're all gentlemen here, and I'm sure we can act like it. You are all grown men and I shouldn't have to scold you like small children. Nott -"

Theodore Nott and his father, Sullivan, both stiffened in their places across the room from Draco, backs straight and tense with apprehension. Voldemort saw their tension and smiled wider, pointing, "Senior."

Theodore's tension eased as his father's expression became twice as anxious. "Yes, sir?"

"Sullivan, are the prisoners ready for their trial?"

"Yes, my lord, they are waiting. Guarded, of course. Ready to be sent up whenever you are ready for them."

"Good," the Dark Lord said starkly. "Then let us begin. Why are we all standing? Take your seats and we'll bring the first criminal in."

The room burst into shuffling feet and creaking floorboards, while Draco remained exactly where he was and stared ominously at the Dark Lord as he too climbed the stands. His steps were effortless, making barely any sound and seeming to hover an inch off the ground. He headed for the podium behind which, five years prior, the Minister of Magic would have stood. There was no Minister now, only the Dark Lord, who controlled every tax and law but needed no such title. He was obeyed by all, and anyone who disappointed him would face his judgement in these trials, surrounded by followers who would agree to practically every word he said.

"Draco," the Dark Lord called from his seat, which was not too far away. Draco had positioned himself a bench from Voldemort's podium, cleverly placed to be detached but not so far that he would appear suspicious or fearful.

"My lord," he replied with a courteous nod.

"How are you keeping? And how is Harry Potter?" His tone was layered with suspicion, as though this was some kind of test. Draco could sense that he knew what had happened in the Manor over the few days he'd been absent, and so he made sure he didn't lie.

"He's well. We had a bit of a mishap earlier in the week, a security issue, but that has been sorted -"

"Ah yes." Here it was, his conceited frown, cursing his blanch features with a jagged line of black where his mouth was. "I heard about that... _Issue._ I thought more of your inheritance would have gone towards the Manor's security rather than being spent on your lavish robes."

The snarl in his voice drew attention from the Death Eater's around, and each pair of eyes glared daggers at Draco, just as he'd feared. All of the people here hated Harry Potter, yet the idea of the Dark Lord being disappointed by any pain the young man suffered ignited in them a hot rage.

"I warn you, Draco," Voldemort continued. "Any more of these issues will demand a punishment. And you wouldn't want to end up like your father."

Half of the glares flickered away at the mention of Lucius, and as did Draco's, his attention falling to the panelled ground at his feet. He didn't dare look up, not even when the shifting of mechanical gears filled his ears and the room's silence became dense. Years ago the courtroom had bustled with noise at the entry of a convicted criminal, but now any words were stilted in their throats by the presence of Voldemort. There was no sound other than a few lone whispers and the clanking of metal shifting from below. Then the mechanisms ground to a halt.

"Daniel Gates," a voice announced to the room. "Caught trying to exit the country after setting a fire in Gringotts and killing twelve people."

"Hm," The Dark Lord hummed, assessing, taking his time, and the time was given to him willingly; not a soul dared to try and quicken him. "Do you have any defence, Mr. Gates?"  
A sordid whimper filled the air. "I weren't leaving," he begged. "Please, sir, I was only going to see my cousin - she lives in Poland, I was only picking her up from -"

"For the arson? The crime?"

"I-It weren't me. It was an accident - not my fault! I jus' got a dodgy wand, sir, it don't work like it should."

Draco glanced up through his eyelashes, and saw a thin, scrawny man shivering in his thin uniform, a grey beard tickling his chin. The Dark Lord glared at him, and the old man only seemed to shrivel further into himself.

"Well, I think we all agree that this has cost you a decade in Azkaban, at least," Voldemort decided for himself with no other input, clearly bored. "We shall review in six years if you're alive. Goodbye."

"No, sir, no _please_ -" The old man cries, but already the mechanisms were sounding again, dragging him below ground. His fingers grappled around the metal bars, but his sentence had been served; He was dragged away and promptly forgotten.

"Bring in the next one," the Dark Lord said with a limp wave of his hand in the air, and the nuts and bolts clanked and clanged as they brought up another figure. This one was different. Her small frame was hunched, a fringe of dark hair covering her fragile visage - Draco recognised her. She'd been on his couch just days ago, timid and afraid, and her memory of that interview had been swept from her mind by an idle brush of his wand over her brow.

"Cho Chang," the announcer proclaimed. "Charged with stealing from her boss's office. Sixty galleons was taken from Ms. Parkinson's desk over multiple occasions, over which time Miss Chang had been in charge of keeping the office safe. The money has been returned, she has been fired, and Ms. Parkinson requests that there be no punishment served."

The Dark Lord's eyes gleamed with bright, sinister pleasure at this announcement, a grin brought to his features. "Do you have a defence, Miss Chang? " he asked, a deviousness on his tone.

"No, sir," Cho said, head down and face angled towards the floor at her feet. "I don't."

"Well, usually I would respond to this with immediate imprisonment, but of course your employer - or past employer, should I say - has withdrawn prosecution. Your friend Pansy is a headstrong young woman, isn't she Draco?"

Draco's attention whipped towards Voldemort, having not expected his opinion to be asked. "Yes," he replied swiftly nonetheless, ignoring as best as he could the sly glaze over Voldemort's blood red eyes.

"I'll leave this up to you, Draco. Which should it be: should she be punished, or should Pansy's wishes be served?"

Draco paused. It didn't take an idiot to realise that this was another test, and it was simply imperative that he pass - for Harry's sake as well as his own. Letting Chang off was out of the question; it would be seen as weak, and if she'd come this far it was supposed that she was liable to a punishment of some kind. But Draco was hardly heartless, and the Dark Lord could tell when a follower was doing something only to impress him - it would backfire.

"Well," he sighed. "Obviously her actions must earn a punishment, and arise some question concerning both her loyalty and honesty. But, in light of Pans- _Ms. Parkinson's_ request, I would suggest that Miss Chang be fined, to demonstrate how losing that money must have affected her boss, and be imprisoned overnight so she can reflect on her sins."

The Dark Lord glared at him for a moment, sinister as always. Then his face brightened and he looked almost... _Pleased,_ in a rather eerie fashion _._ The other faces surrounding him were more conceited, glaring at Draco as though he was a child playing with guns. They didn't trust him to utter a word in front of the Dark Lord.

"Good, Draco," Voldemort commended as though petting a loyal dog. "That seems like a reasonable punishment. Very well, that is exactly what I shall do. Farewell, Miss Chang - and let this be a lesson to you."

Cho looked up as the cage began to descend, and for a moment her eyes were filled with hatred that burned in them like a flame and seemed to scold her small figure. Yet tears teetered over the edges of her eyelids, brimming also with fear. She wasn't any more likely than Draco to utter a word to the Dark Lord. Draco's gaze withdrew again as she disappeared into the dungeons below, her whole body taunt with fear. She was right to be scared - even just one night kept down there was a hell almost as traumatic as a few hours trapped in Azkaban.

Draco stared at his lap, and evaded his thoughts from the leering frames surrounding him. No other Death Eaters sat on this bench with him, and he was glad for it. He had intentionally picked the most tarnished bench and perched himself on the edge of it, reducing the likelihood that he would have to sit on the same piece of furniture as any of the Death Eaters, most of which comprised of old men and murderous brutes. But those stares weren't easy to ignore. They burnt his spine like hot pokers from a fire.

The jarring sound of another prisoner being towed into the room was just a vibration humming in Draco's ears, bringing about virtually no reaction. He couldn't be bothered any more. This hearing had dragged on too long for him to endure already, and he quite frankly wanted only to rush home and be with Potter. At first, even the Dark Lord's words didn't interest him in the slightest.

"Next," the Dark Lord prompted. "Ah, the best until last, I see. I'm sure we've all been waiting to see you here."

"Looking forward to throwing me in a cage again?" The new voice was feminine, but firmer than Cho Chang's. Anger was rooted in the woman's tone, and her voice seemed oddly familiar to Draco, as though he'd heard it once in more than just passing.

"Oh I don't think so, Miss Granger."

At that, Draco's attention was snatched. His eyes snapped up to see a scruffy, malnourished version of Hermione Granger stood in the cylindrical cage, her eyes trained with blind rage at Voldemort. The Dark Lord stared back, just as fearless as she was in his wake. "We have a much more severe punishment planned for you this time around."

Hermione glared back. Her hair fell over her face in matted curls, having not been washed or groomed in days, and her skin was grimy, gleaming with sweat - not at all like the polished young woman she'd been at school. Like before, her words were harsh and coated with strong determination, sure she that every word she said was right - just as any well-adjusted Gryffindor. Her eyes glanced over at Draco and narrowed. To her, all she saw was another Death Eater sat there in his place, with blonde hair groomed to perfection and dark robes that fell over his shoulders with not a single crease.

"Hermione Granger," the announcer said dutifully, although it was clear that the Dark Lord - and likely everyone surrounding him too - knew who she was as well as her crimes. "Captured a week prior due to her allegiance with Harry Potter as well as obstruction of the course of justice. Imprisoned upon arrest, however she was re-arrested last night after supposedly -"

"Yes, yes, we all know," Voldemort stopped him, dismissing his words with a quick swipe of his hand through the empty air. "You escaped, Miss Granger, and we are fully aware of how. I mightn't have been so quick to toss you into Azkaban had I known you were a lycanthrope."

So the Dark Lord assumed that she had been turned, perhaps caught between a werewolf and his dinner one night while avoiding Death Eaters? He didn't suppose for a second that his ally, Fenrir Greyback, might have something to do with it. Then again, why would he? It was a strange move for the werewolf to have made without direction. Still, Draco had to stifle a grin; for once, he seemed to know something that the Dark Lord was unaware of.

When Granger didn't say a word, the Dark Lord continued. "Tell me, what were you trying to do at the Malfoy residence last night? Attempting to say a final word to your friend? Or did you plan to raid the building in search of him?"

"Who's to say I didn't?"

This woman had broken into his home last night, Draco reminded himself. Too many people had entered the Manor without consent in the last week for all to be well, and a stiff, suspicious feeling lurked in the back of Draco's mind as to what could have caused the disrupt.

"Well, I'm fairly sure we all know what your sentence ought to be," The Dark Lord sighed, blatantly ignoring her retort as though it was just a distant shuffle of feet scuffing the floor. "However, I would like a testimony. A witness to your crimes, as extensive as they are."

The entire room remained silent, stiff and oppressed beneath the demeaning presence of his words. The Dark Lord didn't need a witness, he didn't even need evidence to convict someone of a crime. The mere knowledge - or even just the _suspicion_ \- that someone had defied him was enough to leave them rotting in Azkaban for decades. This was his world, after all, designed for him to play with and arrange its components however he liked. But he liked to play with his victims, snare them with his own kind of evidence and shove them into the public eye, so others would learn from their mistakes. Defying the Dark Lord meant pain and, eventually, death - the world had come to acknowledge that.

Draco was hardly surprised when the Dark Lord's ominous gaze met his, yet still he sunk in his seat, knowing what was about to be asked of him.

"Harry Potter, " Voldemort announced, "will be brought before the court tomorrow morning, to give evidence against Miss Granger here. And, if justice prevails, she will be hung at noon."

-TRANSITION-

 _"Hung?"_

Blaise was endlessly more shocked than Draco had been at the news, unaware of the ruthlessness of the Dark Lord's so-called "justice".

"That's a little medieval, isn't it?" the Auror pondered. "She only tried to get away - like anyone wouldn't."

"She's a threat," Draco sighed, brushing his fingers through his hair, his eyelids dropping from mental exhaustion. "He wants to get rid of her and make a statement in the process. But forcing Harry to testify against her..." He shook his head. "I'm assuming he knows that torture won't work, and if so they'll use veritaserum. It will be torture enough for him, to betray his friend."

"Merlin," Blaise cursed under his breath. They were stood in the foyer, where Blaise had been waiting for Draco to return from court. While they'd greeted each other with dull smiles, each now had a deep frown set in their features.

"Why do this?" Blaise cried. "What is he planning? First he forces you two to marry, and now he's using Harry to convict his best friend. What is he getting out of this?"

"Keep your voice down," Draco hissed, grabbing Blaise by the forearm and cautiously scanning the halls around them. There was not a soul in sight, but someone could have easily been listening in from behind a closed door. "That kind of talk could get you killed."

Blaise sighed. "You're right," he murmured, and though reluctant, he kept his thoughts to himself.

"Where's Harry?" Draco asked.

"In the library last time I checked. Hopefully reading up on how to resist veritaserum." Draco sent him a cold look, and Blaise dropped the joke. "OK, that wasn't funny. Come on."

They began to climb the staircase, heading to the first floor. The two men went silent, accompanied only by their footsteps hitting ancient carpet as the landing unfolded before them.

"I don't know how I'm meant to tell Harry," Draco sighed, halting at the top of the stairs. "He cares so much about Granger. He'll only blame himself even more to know that she's to die - and at his hand."

"Well, what else can you do?" Blaise countered softly. The wooden bannister in the grip of Draco's fist seemed to be soft enough to dig his fingernails into, but when he did so the wood remained taunt and stubborn. He gritted his teeth as Blaise continued. "It's the Dark Lord. What he says goes. You're not planning on doing anything stupid, are you?"

"No, of course not," Draco said dismissively.

"Good."

Draco spotted the large oak doors at the end of the hall that led to the library, and frowned at the idea of Harry waiting in there, blissfully unaware of the news that irked Draco's mind. He dreaded the look that would no doubt grace Harry's face when he heard the news. He sighed, gathering his thoughts in an effort to find the right words to say.

"Wish me luck," he muttered solemnly to Blaise, receiving a pitiful smile in response. He headed for the door, and gathered all the courage he'd ever been able to muster to push him through.

-TRANSITION-

Boredom poisoned Harry's mind like a disease

For days on end, he'd been sitting around in bed, staring at the blank walls around him and waiting for all his pain to be relieved. Now that the curse was gone, taking his ailments with it, his mind was dry, barren of any full thoughts as he wandered aimlessly around the Manor's library. He strolled the gallery, gazed up at the glistening chandelier that hung from the ceiling, and stroked the books' spines as he went. They were dusty; that was the only thought he had for them.

The sound of the door swinging open and then easing back against its frame caught his attention. Harry darted back through the aisles towards it in the hope that it wasn't just Blaise coming to check on him again. Blaise was lovely, but there was someone else entirely who he wanted to see.

"Harry?"

As he turned the last corner, Harry caught a flash of blonde ducking away from the entrance and peering behind a bookshelf. Harry grinned and followed him, catching Draco's upper arm and turning him around. He pulled the blonde near and smacked his lips onto Draco's with a hand to each of his cheeks.

Draco seemed startled. His lips kissed Harry back and yet his eyes remained slightly open, and folded into a deep frown. His hands didn't grasp Harry's hips and drag him closer, and he didn't kiss with the amorous passion Harry had expected. The former Gryffindor suddenly felt foolish, to have jumped onto him with the assumption that Draco would reciprocate his actions.

Harry pulled away with a blush on his cheeks, wishing he hadn't been so forward. He went to take his hands from Draco's cheeks, but in the process the blonde caught his hands and held them both, staring into his eyes. They were glassy, as though he was holding in tears that stung at his eyeballs, and his jaw was tense, drilling words into his throat rather than letting them burst out.

"Draco?" Harry said, reaching back up to his face to try and stroke away the tension. Draco gripped his wrist tight, grasp unyielding. "Are you OK?"

"I'm so sorry, Harry." Draco's voice was soft and taunt, barely audible beneath the deafening hiss of silence around them.

"What is it?"

"Granger. She's been arrested again. She was sentenced in court today."

Harry's face fell, and so too did his hand from Draco's. His eyes met the floor, and suddenly every bone in his frame seemed to weight a hundred tonne, weighing him down and dragging his body to the floor. He took a breath and turned away from Draco, unable to face the sorrow residing in his eyes that served as a mirror to Harry's soul.

"I'm sorry," Draco whispered. He reached out to place a hand on Harry's shoulder, and tried his best to offer comfort through a light squeeze. But Harry remained deathly still, rooted to the spot. "I'm so sorry."

"They're going to kill her, aren't they?" Harry managed to splutter from a throat that had turned hoarse.

"Most likely, yes."

"Tomorrow."

"Yes." Draco lowered his gaze, because clearly that wasn't the whole story. "But the Dark Lord wants you to testify against her."

"What?" Harry's vision went white with rage. He whipped around to face Draco again, finding that the blonde's gaze was deadly serious. "I won't do it! They're going to murder her anyway, why bother?"

"The Dark Lord wishes -"

"Voldemort! His name is Voldemort! Call him by his name!"

"He wishes to use Granger as an example for the rest of the country, to still some brewing disobedience."

Harry seethed with rage. At least the blonde didn't attempt to haze over the truth with any justice bullshit that Tom would have imposed on his Death Eaters without question. This wasn't justice - it was _murder_. Harry's mind turned cold with rage at the thought of Hermione dying to aid Voldemort's sick "cause".

Blinded by forming tears, Harry turned and threw himself at a nearby bookshelf, hammering punches into the spines of books which tumbled to the floor at his feet. He kicked at them, sending a flurry of torn paper into a cloud around him, and felt bruises begin to stain his skin as he rammed his heels against the bookcase. Behind his eyelids, squeezed shut, was Voldemort, a smug look on his serpentine features that Harry longed to pummel and break until it turned scarlet with blood. Then everyone would see how _immortal_ Tom really was, blood trailing down his cheeks like tears.

But Draco grabbed him by the arms and towed him away, leaving the innocent tomes to clatter to the ground and stay there. At first Harry struggled, but then his limbs flailed, chest heaved, and he broke out into a sob that tore at his guts and snapped his legs from beneath him. He grappled at Draco's shoulders and buried his head in the blonde's chest, held up only by Draco's arms around him. Harry hardly noticed that they'd moved from that spot amongst the aisles of books until Draco lowered him into an armchair that felt like a cloud engulfing him. He looked up, and found himself tucked in a corner by a dimly lit fire. Draco knelt down in front of him, hands clutching both of Harry's, and he pressed his lips gently to Harry's wrist.

"Hermione," Harry wailed. "She's going to be killed, and all because -"

"Don't you dare say it," Draco hissed. "Don't say it's your fault. That's ridiculous - _Voldemort_ is responsible for this, not you. If you'd gone with her, you both would have been caught. You'd never see the light of day again - never see me again. How would that be better?"

Harry didn't answer, but his eyes, empty and vacant, found Draco's. They stared for a moment, neither knowing what to say.

"I-I can't do it," Harry stuttered eventually. "I can't do that to her, I just can't." He vaulted from his seat in an effort to stand, but his legs collapsed beneath him, and Draco fought to hold him up. He held Harry and let the dark haired man sob into his shoulder. Every time Harry inhaled he was engulfed by Draco's warm scent; it was different than before, mustier. But the knowledge of where that smell had come from made him grit his teeth again, imagining his lover trapped in a room full of Death Eaters who bred hate from their every breath.

"I won't do it," Harry said against Draco's neck. "I can't let my friend _die_. Not again, please."

"I will do everything I can to ensure that doesn't happen," Draco promised, but Harry knew his words were empty. There was nothing he could do. But Draco hugged Harry closer, and between them strung a joint desire to be ridden of this world, to take their loved ones and scamper from beneath the Dark Lord's lurking gaze, untainted by his deadly plans.

Harry glanced up, taking in Draco's haunted features. The blonde appeared more concerned than ever: His eyes were heavy at the edges, dragged down by the fatigue that accompanied deep set, unyielding worry. Harry kissed him, sweet and tender, then did so again with more passion on his lips, a drop of fire teetering from the tip of his tongue. At first Draco didn't respond, and merely leaned away from Harry's touch. He appeared to have been more effected by Hermione's sentencing than Harry did. But Harry couldn't stand there and watch as Draco teetered towards the edge of tears.

"Harry -" Draco protested as the dark haired man pressed his lips to Draco's even harder, arms drawing him close. The blonde didn't resist, but that awful look staining his features remained. Harry kissed the expression away, and when it didn't rub off as he'd expected, he only kissed more: harder, faster, compelled by desperation. Draco's earlier conceit quickly faded, and he kissed back.

Draco's back hit the floor, and Harry straddled his hips, bending forward to keep his lips latched onto the blonde's and his hands balled Draco's shirt into fists. The closeness was warmer than the fire, a magnetic intimacy that held them together like glue. Harry wanted so badly to ram Draco up against the bookshelf, strip him until his flesh was bare and littered with goose bumps, and feel the blonde's limbs wrapped around him. But he could sense the passion fading from Draco's kiss when his fingers brushed lightly through Harry's hair. The touch was now becoming more gentle, as Draco drew himself away and Harry responded with lighter kisses himself. Eventually, their lips parted and Draco watched Harry's face with large, round eyes and ominous dilated pupils.

"We can't do this now," Draco whispered. "Especially not _here_."

Harry begged to differ; here and now seemed perfect. But he sighed and decided not to argue. "If you say so," he said.

Draco pressed a kiss to his forehead and smiled dimly. His gaze fluttered toward the window, where an orange glow was cast against the glass, leaving a warm hue on the wooden floor below. The blonde sat up, dragging Harry with him.

"It's getting late," he said. "The hearing starts at 8 o'clock tomorrow. We ought to get to bed."

"OK," Harry murmured back. Maybe cocooned under the covers he could try to forget that there was any world outside Draco's warm embrace.

As they headed to leave, Draco turned back unexpectedly to kiss Harry's lips, a hand trailing to the back of his neck. When he pulled away his hand took Harry's, grappling on as though he was afraid that Harry would let go and dart away any minute. He wasn't smiling, but looked back at Harry with an unsettling expression on his face. But he'd led Harry out the door before the Gryffindor could ask what else was worrying him.


	14. Chapter 14: Witness

Chapter 14: Witness

As always, Apparation made Harry's stomach twist and his head pound, spinning like a whirlpool. His feet landed flat on the ground, but even then he rocked back on his heels and reached out for something to grab hold of. Draco's hand found his, stopped him from falling, and Harry shook his head to toss the dizziness from his skull. No matter how old he was, the disorientation that came with Apparating never seemed to fade away.

Around him a hallway with dark marble floor and stone walls unfolded, lit dimly by yellow lanterns. The place was tarnished: the floors were chipped and the remains of a few lanterns were smashed on the floor, leaving gaping shadows in their wake. A cluster of spiders crept up the walls and made their home in the corner between wall and ceiling. Upon first glance, the hall reminded Harry of the Department of Mysteries, buried deep underground, and the air stewed with the dark essence of hundreds of dark artefacts and wizards that had been kept there. But as he glanced to the wall, Harry spotted the remnants of a metal plaque fastened to the stone:

THE DEPARTMENT OF MAGICAL LAW ENFORCEMENT

Harry frowned. He'd assumed that the Ministry had been left in wrecks upon Voldemort's succession, but it seemed as though its previous uses remained. He guessed some things never changed.

"This way." Draco led him down the corridor, and a doorway up ahead came into view. It was low and narrow, with a small, cottage-like wooden door fitted into it. There was a bolt on the outside and a lock to go with it. It was the kind of door that someone went through, but didn't often come out of. Harry shivered.

"This goes up to the witness box," Draco explained, but made no effort to climb the stairs. He stepped closer to Harry and kissed him suddenly, lips brushing quickly over Harry's as though he was afraid of being caught. One hand reached to rest on Harry's cheek, while the other took a hold of his hand and laced their fingers together. When he pulled away, his gaze bored into Harry's.

"Whatever happens in there," Draco said, voice low and quivering, "I love you. Remember that, OK?"

He barely gave Harry enough time to nod before he'd set off up the staircase, taking the steps two at a time.

The walkway was hardly wide enough for one person yet alone two. Harry followed Draco as the staircase spiralled around once, twice, each step threatening to crumble beneath Harry's feet. Then the low ceiling opened up, and the two men found themselves on a platform, caged in by metal bars and with a chair sitting lonesome in the middle. It appeared less like a witness stand and more like a cell. A candle quivered from the corner, and yet again Harry found Draco's pale hand clasped in his. Harry held on tightly in an attempt to still the crease in Draco's brow, but he doubted that the witness stand itself was what scared him; On the other side of the bars, a story or so below, spanned the courtroom, already full, and every single pair of eyes turned on Harry with lasers of hatred aimed straight at him.

The sea of Death Eaters sent a shot of hot panic down Harry's spine. Draco's hand let go of Harry's, and he gestured for Harry to sit down. Harry complied. All the while, the eyes continued to stare. Dozens of Death Eaters littered the stands below, each one swathed in black robes, and there was an eeriness about them that had Harry conflicted as to whether he ought to cower away or stare back at them. One prominent space was unfilled in the centre of the stands: the lectern where the Minister was meant to be seated. But there was no minister; the spot was left for Voldemort.

"He'll ask you some questions," Draco said, interrupting Harry's thoughts. He too was perturbed by the Death Eaters looming below. "Answer them as best as you can. Please don't resist it. You'll be given veritaserum, so whether you talk or not the truth will come out, and trying to lie will only hurt more. Please promise me you'll do as he says?"

"I'll try," Harry murmured back, and spied a few empty seats towards the edges of the room. "You're going out there with the rest of them?"

Draco nodded solemnly. Harry glanced back at the staircase. "You're going to lock the door? "

The blonde looked uneasy. "You know I have to," he murmured. "It'll be bolted, no wards. Although I guess without a wand that doesn't make much difference."

Harry's eyes met the floor of the cage, breaths muted by a strange kind of claustrophobia. The man he loved was about to lock him in a cage. Though he knew it wasn't by choice - Voldemort was the one conducting all of this, not Draco - his thoughts were tainted by the feeling of betrayal.

"Remember what I said," Draco reminded him, before returning down the stairs. Draco's heals clicked against the wooden steps, and then the clunk of the door shutting echoed through the air, its bolt set in place over the opening. Draco entered the courtroom, and his attention snapped up towards Harry, holding his gaze for a short moment. Then he looked away and headed for an empty seat at the edge of the stands.

A new figure quickly followed, hollow footsteps echoing against the tile floor. Harry's forehead began to ache, the kind of pain that invaded his thoughts like a parasite. He raised a hand to his scar, feeling it burn like a fire raging beneath his skin. His legs began to fidget, eager to get away, but trapped in this cage there was nowhere to run. Below, a final figure tipped his head up towards Harry.

Voldemort was as dark as ever, dressed as a shadow yet carrying himself like a king. He moved as a ghost would, gliding over the stands, and his skin was almost as pale as the white of his blood red eyes. Any remaining whispers died; even Harry's breathing seemed too loud for comfort, as though the tiny sound would lure the Dark Lord over like a shark. Seated, Voldemort's eyes flickered back up to Harry, and a menacing smile adorned his snake like features.

Harry refused to let him have the first word. "Tom," he greeted dully.

"Harry Potter." Voldemort chuckled, then addressed his followers. "We all know Potter, of course. Today, he will be a witness to the crimes of Hermione Granger."

His thin, skeletal fingers pointed to another cage to Harry's left, and the grinding of metal lifted a cage from the floor below. Metal bars rose from the floor, arranged in a tight circle that caged a young woman. Her head was tipped towards the ground, matted brown hair hanging in thick strands in front of her face. Her shoulders were hunched, clothed in rags. She looked up slowly, and her face was clouded in hatred.

Hermione's gaze danced over the audience of Death Eaters, and then landed on Harry. He gulped; her sinister gaze didn't falter for him.

"Harry?" she gasped, but the Dark Lord pressed on.

"Goyle - administer the serum."

A rough hand grabbed Harry by the back of the skull and forced his head back, pulling it by his unruly hair. Harry resisted, but the grip was too strong, and his skull quickly tipped back onto the belly of a man stood behind his chair. Harry hadn't even heard the Death Eater come in. One hand pressed his forehead back, while the other pried his mouth open and poured a thick, venomous liquid between his lips.

Harry gagged; the taste was vile, staining his mouth in bile and making him want to claw the liquid back out with his bare hands. Harry's fingers flew to his throat; it felt as though it was swelling up, his mouth turning dry and numb. His tongue had become a loyal puppet for the Dark Lord's plans. The rough hand threw his head forward again, and Harry bent forwards and retched, his eyes drilled to the floor. But nothing came. He sat back up, wiped the saliva from the edge of his mouth, and spotted the Dark Lord staring back at him with a devious look on his face. Across the room, Draco's face had turned stark white.

"Now then," Voldemort hissed through barred teeth. "We can begin. Mr. Potter, tell me: Do you consider Miss. Granger to be a criminal? An accomplice?"

"No," Harry replied. His mouth still tasted sickly, but he stared back at Voldemort through narrow eyes. Of course Hermione wasn't a criminal.

Voldemort didn't look particularly perturbed by Harry's response. "But she's your friend, isn't she? You have been close for years - more than just friends, perhaps?"

"No," Harry said. "We're friends. Nothing more."

"Ah, I see. And you both had another friend, didn't you? A red headed boy - was his name something like... Rupert? Robert?"

"Ron," Harry muttered through gritted teeth. Hermione gripped the bars of her cage and stared at Voldemort. If looks could kill, he'd be dead for real this time. "His name was Ron."

"I assume that Hermione was in relations with him, then. That you are not the father of the child she carries - he is."

Harry's eyes narrowed even further. "Yes," he said. Had Tom really assumed that? Had anyone thought that _he_ was with Hermione rather than Ron? Had Draco imagined that, even for a second? Harry's gaze flickered up to the blonde, but found him watching the Dark Lord intently from behind.

"Well," Voldemort sighed. "It's a great shame that the baby may be leaving the world soon before she even reaches it."

Suddenly, the chains around Hermione's wrists clattered against the cell bars as she shook them relentlessly. "Don't you DARE touch my baby!" Her cries echoed through the room, but the Dark Lord was unfazed. Harry pinned on him a sinister glare; it had been too long now for him to be afraid of the same old man that had crumbled in front of him 22 years ago.

"Really? You're willing to murder her child?"

Voldemort looked almost shocked. His face fell. "And what else do you suppose I do, wait until the child is born before slaughtering her mother before her innocent eyes? An orphaned child is better to have never existed in the first place, Harry - you and I both know what torture I am saving her from."

Harry's breath turned to fire. From the corner of his vision he could see Hermione, on the verge of screaming in rage. "I disagree."

The Dark Lord merely stared back and grinned. "I don't care. Now, did Miss Granger aid you in your evasion of capture and thus disrupt the course of justice?"

"N-n-" Harry fought to say it but his breath became stilted in his throat - the words wouldn't come. A noose was tied around his tongue, yanking it back whenever he tried to utter something that wasn't strictly true. Yes, Hermione had helped him - but it was hardly a crime. He didn't want to say it - doing so, he may as well have tied the rope around her neck, but it was a battle enough just to force himself to say nothing.

"Y-yes," his lips uttered without his consent. One second's lapse in focus and it was there, hanging in the air before him, unitary from his control. He wanted to snatch the words back, take with them the look of shock pasted on Hermione's features and the smile that began to spread over Voldemort's mouth. Any explanation died on Harry's tongue, stolen by the veritaserum that laid at the pit of his stomach. Somehow Hermione hadn't hated him before, after everything he'd done, every mistake he'd made, but now her resentment was painted across her gaze like a scar, and so too was the Dark Lord's delight.

He went on: "Did she fight against the current establishment in the recent war?"

Harry was forced to reply. "Yes," he choked. "She fought." He hated every syllable that slid from his tongue.

"Was Miss. Granger smart at school, arrogant about her achievement and careless in her attempts at heroism?"

"Yes - no, NO!" Harry squeezed his eyes shut, clawing at his head. His throat burned, head pounding. He didn't know if what he was saying was the truth or an attempt at a lie any more, only that something other than his own free will controlled his tongue.

"Did she kill dozens of people during the war, aiding in the slaughter of over 200 people at the Battle of Hogwarts alone?"

"No! No, she didn't!" A relief ran through Harry, and the burning of his skull subsided for a moment. He felt as though he could breathe again after an eternity underwater, and his gaze shot up to meet Tom's. "She hasn't done anything wrong and you know it!"

Tom only chuckled. "Oh, really? Because from what I can tell she has broken about every law to do with treason that I can think of." He grinned up at Harry, rising to his feet. "And we're only just beginning, Mr. Potter."

-TRANSITION-

Draco wasn't sure he could watch this any longer. His hands tightened into fists at his sides, unmovable, as he watched Harry's eyes clench shut against the onslaught of questions fired his way. Draco ought to have stressed how agonising this procedure could be; he could see the tension in the dark haired man's shoulders, the grip of his hands on the arms of his wooden chair. His teeth bit around each word he uttered, lies were struck dead at the back of his throat, and his face was turning pale, drained of energy. The torture was getting to him, and soon his strength would waver and he would be forced to give in.

But his resilience made Draco more anxious than he could bare. People had died from this kind of torture before, the stress of the truth being squeezed from them causing their hearts to stop dead in their chests, ribs collapsing into their lungs as they gave up on more than just fighting the veritaserum. Draco's wand laid idle in his pocket, but whilst his fingers clawed at the side of his leg, desperate to reach for it, he refrained. Saving Harry meant death for both of them, and Harry had yet to be fatally harmed.

"How did Weasley die?" The Dark Lord wondered. "Explain it to me. Tell every detail." This wasn't even remotely relevant to the trial. The Dark Lord was playing now, having his own fun. He must have known that every answer clawed at Harry's insides and beat at his conscience; Draco could see it in his eyes even from across the room.

"I c-c-can't," Harry stuttered back, barely audible. His eyes darted over to Hermione in the adjacent cage, but his gaze crawled away again at the sight of her tears.

"Yes you can. Your tongue is fully functional, isn't it?" Voldemort countered. "Tell me how he dived in front of Miss Granger, how his chest was torn apart and he fell to the ground, eyes wide and lifeless. I'm sure you can come up with a better description - you were there after all. Entertain me, Harry, I want to know every detail of how your friend -"

"My lord. "

The words had left Draco's lips before he could stop them. Voldemort's head whipped around to face him. The Dark Lord's murderous gaze drilled holes into Draco's skull, but he didn't seem particularly surprised by the blonde's interjection.

"Draco," he mused. "Do you have something to add?"

The blonde's jaw stiffened, tongue turning to stone against the roof of his mouth. "Is this really necessary?" he said, voice hollow and quiet. The Dark Lord glared back at him, pupils dark and full.

"Are you _questioning_ me?"

"No, of course not, my lord -"  
"It seems strange that such a loyal follower would interrupt me as I questioned a witness. Do you doubt my methods?"

"N-no, my lord, I'm just worried. He looks as though he is in pain."

Voldemort glanced back at Harry and saw him buckled over in pain, holding his head as though it was pounding. Draco could barely look, as his heart became fraught with concern upon every slight glimmer of Harry's agony that came into view.

"It's strange," the Dark Lord murmured back. "Years ago you had no care for Harry, yet now you can't seem to stand the idea of him suffering even the slightest pain."

He smiled, grim and wide. It wasn't a look of disapproval, no. If anything the Dark Lord seemed pleased, the grin warping his stark, pale, serpentine features. Draco stared back, trying hard to hide his bafflement. What _was_ he planning?

"Well, there's nothing to worry about," Voldemort dismissed. "After all, the pain is only self-inflicted. All Harry has to do is tell the truth..."

Draco frowned Harry's way, brow weighing low over his eyes. He wished it would obscure his vision, blind and deafen him from Harry's pain so that he could forget that the other man was being tortured, that there was nothing Draco could do. He looked away, fascinated by his hands folded in his lap as he often appeared to be during these kind of hearings. It was the only way of coping. The other Death Eaters judged him; he could feel their gazes drifting his way. They concealed their laughter, but their shoulders shook with the effort of keeping it down. They hated him already, and the idea that he actually cared for Harry seemed to them the perfect joke. The Dark Lord hadn't just provided a liable court for the public to discuss - he'd created a few haughty hours of entertainment for his followers. All but Draco, who slowly reduced into nothing but worry.

"Anyway," the Dark Lord said with a sigh. "We're done here. It seems abundantly clear that Miss Granger is guilty. All in favour of a hanging later this evening, raise your hands."

A low murmur circled the room, and following a shuffle of moving limbs, every Death Eater raised a hand in the air. So too did the Dark Lord, his gaze scanning the room. Draco, meanwhile, didn't move. Both arms remained rooted to his sides, and even when the Dark Lord looked his way, his fear paralysed him. Every pair of eyes turned his way and shot fire into his skin, and still he didn't move. None of them mattered, he kept telling himself. Harry mattered, and so too did Hermione if she mattered to him. But the deadly glare Voldemort sent his way wasn't just blood red and narrow, it was menacing. The old man's pupils seemed to be laced with fire, latching onto Draco's arm and raising his hand without his consent.

A sigh found his ears, scampering across the courtroom from the circular cage where Hermione stood. She shook her head and scowled his way, unsurprised by his response. Another, horrified gaze bored into his skull from the other direction. Reluctantly, Draco turned his head to find Harry staring straight at him, tears pricking at the edges of his eyes.

"If anyone here is in opposition to that judgement," Voldemort continued. His gaze had moved from Draco's, but still his words struck the blonde's skull like a hammer. "Speak now."

Draco remained silent. He couldn't utter a word; his mouth had run dry and the back of his throat contained the remnants of his last meal. He knew that another word against the Dark Lord would be bad news - he may as well have pointed a wand to his own throat and ended it now, for the Dark Lord would surely make his death slow and painful in comparison. The moment fleeted by, air restless with anxious silence. Draco wasn't quite sure what he was meant to do, but before he had a chance to respond accordingly to the red hot glare Harry sent him from across the room, the opportunity to redeem himself had flickered by.

"Well then, it is settled," The Dark Lord concluded. "Hermione Granger will be hanged later today. You are all dismissed."

In a wisp of thick black smoke which washed the air with darkness, Voldemort was gone, and his followers quickly dispersed. Draco remained silent, not wanting to move from his seat. But someone had to get Harry out of that cage, and he was about the only person who cared enough to do so.

Once released, Harry refused to say a word. He stumbled down the stairs after Draco, head hung, eyes fixed to the floor and arms hanging dead at his sides. Guilt festered in Draco's stomach, even though he knew that there was little to nothing he could have done - his words meant nothing but disapproval to the Dark Lord. It was a horrible feeling, to know that he'd let Harry down. He felt disgusted by himself - Merlin knew what Harry thought of him now.

They Apparated back to just outside the Manor gates, and an attendant guided them up the path and through the front doors. They stepped inside, but before Draco could grab his arm to stop him, Harry had already stalked off alone. Sighing, Draco dropped his hand and let him go.

-TRANSITION-

A blonde figure watched as Draco and Harry appeared in the foyer of the Manor, a breath held in her throat so as to not be seen or heard by either one of them. Harry darted away from Draco as soon as they stepped inside, and headed off down the left corridor. His expression had appeared clouded and teary as he passed, but the thin gap between door and frame, not to mention the temporary disillusionment charm, hindered and morphed her view.

Draco remained where he stood. A sigh ruptured through his chest, and his hands dropped to his sides in defeat. He closed his eyes, chin angled towards the high, concave ceiling as though he was praying. But Draco had never been one to rely on prayer. In a sudden, deft movement, he buried his hands in his hair and pulled at it in frustration, a few delicate strands plucked out in the process. His face folded in on itself, scrunching into a look of deep hatred. Then he sighed, drew his hands from his hair and smoothed it back down. He headed off towards his office to engorge himself in work and forget about his other troubles. Often, his mother wondered if he was really his father's son.

Alert for anyone that could be watching, Narcissa Malfoy crept out of the broom closet, easing the door shut behind her and brushing away the specks of dust that littered her dress. Her gaze flicked towards the left hallway, then up the stairs ahead. Whilst she longed to run after her son and comfort him, she was aware that her efforts never worked, and merely annoyed the boy even further. He was often left alone to stew in his own loathing. Instead, the blonde woman turned towards the hallway and headed off down the same path Harry had taken.

Narcissa followed the head of dark hair up ahead, staying a safe, unnoticeable distance behind. She let her disillusionment charm fade; it was her house after all, and whether she walked around or sat sewing peacefully in the lounge was neither here nor there, not particularly suspicious. Years ago, Narcissa had been somewhat ashamed of her innate ability to creep up on others. Her steps were naturally soundless, her frame small enough to go unnoticed and virtually fade into the background, and she'd been quiet and shy her whole life, overshadowed by her sister, Bellatrix's brash and slightly insane confidence. Now, it was the only skill she could rely on.

Harry's figure disappeared behind a door up ahead, and another man darted out of a door just ahead of Narcissa, almost walking right into her. She stopped to catch her breath in fright at the sudden movement, and a pair of hands gripped her shoulders to steady her.

"Mrs. Malfoy - I'm sorry, did I scare you?" It was Blaise, his brow scrunched up in concern. He'd always been a lovely boy, kind but perhaps a little too worrisome. When he smiled he was graced with angelic beauty, but too often his features were laced with scorn; he was constantly concerned for others. Sometimes it seemed a miracle that he and Draco got on.

"No, I'm quite alright, thank you," Narcissa said. Blaise let go of her and she brushed down her ruffled skirt. But Blaise's shoulders were still tense with concern as he frowned down the hallway. "Blaise, what's wrong?"

He looked back at her, still frowning. "Have you seen Draco or Harry? They ought to be back by now."

"No, I don't believe they are," Narcissa lied, with a tone that was sickly sweet. "I'm sure they'll be here soon. They'll probably arrive in the foyer."

Lies; they were another skill of hers. She seemed apt to conceal anything she wished from her enemies. It was how she'd survived all these years, so tightly linked to the Dark Lord but never quite loyal.

"Oh, thank you." Blaise's worry morphed into assurance. He went to head off but Narcissa stopped him.

"Blaise? Do you think you could have another quick glance at the wards? Redo them, perhaps? The air doesn't... _Feel_ right."

Blaise smiled, only a little frustrated by her request. "Mrs. Malfoy, I checked them the other day. I can assure you they are fully functional."

"I know, but I'd like to be sure."

Blaise sighed, and smiled dully beneath the exhaustion that clouded his features. Narcissa felt a pang of guilt for using him, but it had to be done for the sake of her son's well-being. She knew Blaise would understand if he ever found out.

"OK then," he agreed. "I'll reset them, but I'm sure they're fine."

"Thank you," Narcissa said to him, and let her heels click against the marble floor as she headed down the hall, towards the door Harry Potter had disappeared behind.

The room at the end of the hall, likely unbeknown to Potter, had years ago been her husband's office, where the Dark Lord and his followers would sit and discuss their plans, the Dark Lord's snake glaring at each member as a silent threat for them to comply with his orders and bring back promising reports. When they'd first moved into the Manor it had been the family dining room, as it was closer to the kitchens. It was where Draco had sat in a wooden high chair as a child, and where he'd refused to take a bite of broccoli and sat with his arms folded in childish rage too many times. He'd always been a fussy eater. Narcissa remembered the memories fondly, so vivid in her mind that they almost stung.

But with the Dark Lord's return, his meetings had taken over the Manor, and with it his dark plots had stolen and warped the memories Narcissa held surrounding that room. Within a week of his return, Narcissa had insisted that the family eat elsewhere, refusing to share her meals with the lingering presence of the Dark Lord. That said, whenever Voldemort visited for dinner, they would return to this old dining room once more.  
The space felt cold and empty now, not warm and filled with wisps of Draco's childhood as it had before. Narcissa eased the door open and reluctantly stepped inside, swallowing her repulsion as a pair of emerald green eyes met hers, packed with confusion.

"What are you doing here?" Harry said, frowning.

"Manners, Mr. Potter. I thought I'd taught them to you days ago." Harry didn't return her smile, and her efforts at light conversation clattered to the ground. "You seem upset with Draco. What is it?"

Harry merely scowled, and Narcissa was taken aback by the poison of his stare. It was hateful, almost deadly. "Nothing you would understand."

"You would be surprised what I could understand, Harry." His gaze left hers, and she stepped inside, letting the door swing shut behind her. "I'm deeply sorry for the loss of your friend."

Harry, as if repelled by her, took a stride back, hands leaving the chair he'd been leaning forward against. "You don't mean that," he accused. "Don't waste your breath trying to convince me that you do. Why are you even here - don't you have to go and wipe your son's ass for him or something?"

Narcissa's lips parted around a gasp. "There is no need for insults, Mr. Potter," she said, trying to refrain from lashing out.

Harry's shoulders loosened, and he raked a hand through his hair, head hung. "I'm sorry," he uttered. "Draco's pissing me off."

Narcissa strode forwards. The gap between them was now just a few metres, a few mere steps from her hand touching his arm. "Really?" Her surprise was false; it didn't take a genius to figure out what had happened at the hearing. "I was under the impression that you were getting on a lot better recently, since you recovered."

"Yeah," Harry said. "I thought we were, but..." He sighed. "He voted for her to be punished - to be _hanged_. How could he do that if he really cared?"

"Because he had to," Narcissa replied quietly. She knew all too well the sacrifices that one needed to make, especially when their life was held in the steadfast grip of a dark wizard.

"What are you talking about?"

"You must understand that this world isn't like the one you grew up in," she explained. "There is no government. The Dark Lord decides everything: justice, law, the media. None of it is influenced by anything he doesn't approve of; the entire world is just a dome of puppets for him to control. Defiance leads to death - simple as that. I'm sorry about the unfortunate fate of your friend, but unless you want Draco to be executed along with her, you'll have to accept it."

Harry shook his head, a stern frown set on his features. "I can't. I'm sorry, I can't just accept the fact that my friend is about to die. I have to do something about it if nobody else will."

"Well..." Narcissa hummed. She moseyed forwards, cautiously stepping towards his stiff dark frame. "What if I could get you out of here?"

Potter frowned. He stared back at her, baffled, unaware that she was now in the prime position, within reaching distance of the boy. She could practically feel the tingling of the wards being drained from the walls of the Manor; Blaise was refitting the wards just as she'd asked, and with them the Apparation barrier was slowly weakening. There would be a few minutes lapse where it faltered, not long, but enough time to get two people out and just one back in again.

"Help me get out?" Harry said, but by the time the words had left his mouth the blonde witch had already grasped his arm in her sharp fingers and the world began to twist and turn around them both. The ghostly dining room warped around them into a more open space, green with grass and trees, brown with bark and mud on the ground. The small forest just outside the Manor's grounds, with a small concrete trail winding back down to the village in the valley below. A light breeze waved through Narcissa's hair and brushed over her skin. Freedom tingled at the ends of her fingers, but today it wasn't hers to take.

Harry staggered back, his eyes darting around him at the scenery, then he glared back at Narcissa - but he appeared more astounded than angry.

"Where am I?" he demanded. "Where have you taken me?"

"Far enough away that you won't be followed," Narcissa said. "The Manor is back behind us, and ahead is your freedom. You may either run off, and I will turn a blind eye to the direction you follow, or you may take my hand and return to the Manor with me, as though you'd never left. It is your choice, Harry, and I suggest you make it quickly."

Harry stuttered, wordless and bewildered. His words eventually tripped off the end of his tongue. "Why are you doing this?"

Narcissa tutted back. "No matter why, we don't have time for questions. Stay, or leave - decide now!"

After a moment of hesitation, Harry gulped, and turned decidedly away. He ran down the path away from the Manor, feet stumbling with nerves and hands quaking with adrenaline. Narcissa watched until his silhouette had faded into the trees, smiling; she was pleased. Finally it was done, after all that trouble trying to negotiate with wolves. Sometimes, she reminded herself, it was simply better to get something done yourself than rely on mutts looking for a hefty reward. With a last glance at the night sky, Narcissa Apparated back into the Manor, leaping back into her own invisible cage as Harry Potter escaped one of the many layers of his own.

-TRANSITION-

Harry flew down the path, feet battering against the muddy ground beneath them. Never before had it been so delicious to taste freedom on his fingertips. The cool night air stroked the back of his throat and reminded him of Hogwarts, of home. The Manor would never be home to him, even as long as the man he loved resided there. It was a prison, for both of them, and today it was his time to leave.

He was angry with Draco. His shoes battered against the ground as he ran, even as he slowed into a walk and bent to catch his breath. And all the while spurred on by the one image in his mind: one of Draco just sitting there, expressionless, standing idly by as Harry's best friend was casually sentenced to death. Whilst he knew that Draco feared the Dark Lord, it seemed too easy for him to defy, to refuse to turn up to the hearing, to testify evidence for her innocence. It seemed so simple to Harry, even though he understood that Draco's upbringing had been worlds apart from his. But Harry couldn't help his anger.

He hated leaving Draco like this, without even so much as a goodbye, but Narcissa had hardly seemed willing to extend her offer by a few hours so he could say farewell to Draco. It was leave now or leave never - clearly they just weren't meant to stay together.

Up ahead, at the bottom of the steep hill, the dull glow of distant lights played on Harry's vision. There was a village up ahead, hopefully a muggle town where he could call someone for help - if there was anyone left in this world he could trust. He headed for it, confident he was doing the right thing.

He idly reached to fiddle with the ring on his left hand, a habit he'd grown used to in the last few days. He realised now he ought to take it off. He was reluctant to abandon it, but he ought to at least move it to the other hand so that he could be detached from his so-called marriage to Draco Malfoy. He reached to grasp it.

But the metal slid from his grip, remaining firmly planted on his finger. He tried to pull it off again, harder, wondering if his finger had swollen since the wedding - he hadn't taken it off once, not even whilst he was ill. It had remained here, and now that he tried to yank it off, the ring showed more reluctance to let go of him than any inanimate object ought to have. It seemed sewn into his skin - the ring wouldn't come off.

Harry stared at it, and watched as the gem began to glow vivid blue.


	15. Chapter 15: When Everything Crumbles

Chapter 15: When Everything Crumbles

Harry was gone.

Draco's mouth ran dry. He couldn't quite believe it; he'd managed to escape somehow, had made it through the thick tent of wards surrounding the Manor and crossed miles of countryside on foot to get as far away from Draco as physically possible. Harry Potter really was a miracle.

Draco fiddled with the ring on his left hand, his fingers circling the green gem embedded in its silver band. His skin was sore underneath, irritated, but every time he tried to reach under the band to itch the feeling away, his ring seemed unwilling to budge. He knew the itch was a manifestation of his desperate want to dart from the Manor and search for Harry himself. But the Dark Lord had requested his presence. Draco didn't have to be a genius to figure out why. It was one thing for Potter to have been injured in a break in, but to be lost completely? Voldemort was by no means pleased.

The Dark Lord's back was turned as Draco entered his chambers for the second time since Harry had first been captured. There was a rock in Draco's throat; he'd been anxious the first time, but how his senses were so heightened by nerves that he could feel the air becoming stiffer as he stepped towards the dark figure by the fire.

The Dark Lord was prodding the flames again. They sizzled and spat, sparks sent flying only to fizzle out against the stone floor that surrounded the fireplace. The pointer he held was a dull, metallic shade of red at the end, hot enough to burn Draco's Dark Mark from the surface of his skin and leave an even more ghastly scar in its place. He gulped as the Dark Lord sighed and began to speak.

"Tell me Draco," he said, not bothering to turn and face him. "Are you stupid, or simply incompetent?"

"My lord, I apologise for the inconvenience on the Manor's behalf, but search parties are out as we -"

"I don't _care_ about the search parties," the Dark Lord snapped back, his shoulders jerking. "There wouldn't be any _need_ for search parties if only you'd kept your property _secure_. Besides, that wasn't the question I asked you. Are you going to hide behind ignorance or admit your disloyalty?"

Draco swallowed. It seemed worse not to be able to see his face, and have to instead imagine the snarl staining his features. "I am loyal, my lord."

"Hm. I'm beginning to wonder."

The Dark Lord's face was sour as he turned, the poker stick still gripped in his palm. He pointed it straight at Draco's chest.

"Hold out your arm," Voldemort snarled, and like a frightened child Draco pushed up the sleeve on his left arm, shaking as he presented it to the Dark Lord. His Dark Mark was stained into the surface of the skin, and pooled like ink over his veins, as though the darkness ebbed into them and flowed through his body, tying him to the Dark Lord. Voldemort came forwards with his poker still in hand, and grasped Draco's wrist in his gnarled fingers, yanking him forward. The blonde's bottom lip quivered, his spine had become stiff and taunt, and his rib cage had become a sturdy prison that constrained every breath. The Dark Lord raised the poker, and Draco was on the verge of a whimper at the idea of it burning through his skin.

But then the Dark Lord tossed it onto the stone floor; a clatter rang through the air as metal struck marble tile. Draco exhaled a quivering breath. He was hardly relieved - the Dark Lord was still there, looming over him with a sinister hiss on the end of his tongue - but Draco had a suspicion that torture induced by that poker would be worse than any spell.

Voldemort grasped Draco's arm tighter and pressed the tip of his wand to the head of the Dark Mark, close to puncturing a vein with his pressure. He uttered indistinguishable words in Parseltongue, hisses that invaded Draco's mind and seemed to send him into a kind of trance. He heard a murmur at the back of his skull: The minds of the other Death Eaters, each summoned by the same searing pain that scorched their veins as it coursed through them. Draco closed his eyes, gritted his teeth; it was an unsettling feeling, to have the Dark Lord roaming around in his mind and urging each of his followers to come to him.

Finally, Voldemort's wand detached from Draco's skin, the spell complete. Draco went to pull his hand away, but those pale, sharp fingers held on, and turned his palm to the floor to bare the unremarkable back of his hand. Draco's skin appeared tanned against the ghostly white of Voldemort's, whose grip shifted to grasp Draco's hand and raise it, glaring down into the green gemmed band gripped around his ring finger. The emerald could have easily have been plucked from Harry's irises; it shone the very same shade as them.

"What are you - ?"

"Silence." Draco's lips snapped back together, and the Dark Lord dragged him closer to the fire. "It's time to test the real purpose of these rings you wear."

"Purpose?" Draco whispered, relieved afterwards that he wasn't scolded for his utterance. "What did you do to them?"

"I installed a failsafe, so that in situations such as this, Harry Potter will never be far from our reach."

Draco's brow furrowed. "They're trackers? The rings - you can find him?"

Voldemort's eyes trailed towards the fire, and he dragged Draco closer to the flames, until he could feel the heat from them lapping at the edges of his ropes. "Well, we shall see if they work."

In a sudden, snappy movement the Dark Lord plunged Draco's left hand into the fire.

Draco screamed.

-TRANSITION-

In a flight of pain, Harry's hand began to burn by his side. He grabbed it, cradling his whole left arm against his chest in an effort to soothe the ache, but when he glanced down there were no physical signs of a wound or curse entrapping his hand in this pain. It felt as though his palm had touched a hot plate, although his skin was as cold as the night outside. But when he reached to feel for his ring again, it was not only glowing, but sizzling with heat as if it had been thrown in a fire and then slipped back onto his finger.

Harry sat at the end of a train carriage, hunched over in his seat from the pain but trying not to draw too much attention to himself. His teeth were clenched together and his heart thumped loud in his chest, as he watched the trees and fields fly by in an effort to distract himself from the gnawing pain that dug away at his flesh. He'd made his way to a nearby village to gather his bearings and, too tired and drained to Apparate, he'd caught the next train, hardly paying any attention to where it was headed. He would figure out where he was going once they reached the furthest stop. But at the moment, anywhere was fine as long as it was far from Malfoy Manor.

The ring on his hand, however, made him worry. Since leaving, he'd tried all he could to pry the metal ring from its firm grip around his finger, but it wouldn't budge. It wasn't as though the ring was merely stuck on a swollen finger, but more like it had been sewn into him, lacing its metal fibres with the cells in Harry's skin. He shivered at the thought of being tied to it for much longer.

Outside the window, the world swam by, the sky and land merging together into a wash of green and blue. It was raining, drizzle running down the window. Harry laid his head against the glass and listened to the rain patter against it, as the train rocked gently along its tracks. He could have slept, drifting into a fantasy where he was curled up on a bed of feathers, cradled in Draco's arms. Forget the bed - Harry wished only for Draco to have been sat in the empty seat beside him, their fingers laced together and the blonde's head rested on Harry's shoulder. Everything would be OK then. He tried to evade Draco from his thoughts, but the blonde was everywhere. The pale yellow of the corn fields far in the distance reminded him of Draco's hair, shimmering in the golden sun, and his eyes were emulated in the vast blue of the sky, every inch slightly different in shade and texture to the next. Harry almost wished to turn around and return to the Manor, but then there was Voldemort, infringing on his dreams. He couldn't go back. A heavy sigh left his lips; he and Draco just weren't meant to be.

As the train surged through the countryside, Harry became more and more anxious; he wasn't alone. There were a few people scattered about the train at this late hour, and whilst some were idle and completely harmless - like the woman holding a fishing pole, and the old man leaning against his cane in a seat by the door - others appeared a little more suspicious. The woman with a book cradled in her hands wasn't really reading; her eyes kept darting towards Harry and then fleeting back to her book when she thought he'd looked away. The man sat opposite her had been carrying a newspaper under his arm upon entering the carriage, and whilst Harry might have been mistaken, he was sure he'd seen one or two of the pictures shifting, as though they changed just a little each time he looked away. Both of them, as well as another moustached man whose wand stuck proudly from his back pocket, sat precariously close to Harry. Each of them were at least a few seats away from him, but close enough that he could feel their presence stifling him, knowing they could hear every breath and intercept any attempt he made to escape. These were Voldemort's spies, he could feel it. After all, what business could three wizards have travelling from that tiny village back towards London at 8pm in the evening?

Harry shuffled uncomfortably in his seat, right hand gripping his other wrist even tighter than before. His eyelids had been threatening to lull shut 40 minutes ago when he'd gotten on the train: he was tired, worn out by hours of trekking across hills and fields to find a train station. He blinked himself awake, willing his mind to stay alert just a little while longer. He needed to get off this train, and quickly.

Finally, the train rolled into a platform. All three of Voldemort's spies took their time gathering their things, watching, waiting in anticipation for Harry's next move. He stood from his seat, trying not to wobble on his weak ankles and give away the spinning of his head. He headed for the door, letting fatigue dull his urgency, and darted left towards the station toilets that were up ahead.

He ducked through the door and found himself in a white corridor, an archway up ahead leading onto the adjacent platform. There were three pale doors on the wall to his left: the men's, women's, and a baby changing room in between. Without a second's thought, Harry darted for the middle one, relieved out of his mind when it was neither locked nor occupied. Pulling the door to behind him, he opened it by a crack, just enough for him to see out but to be barely noticeable from outside.

The clamber of approaching footsteps echoed through the hallway door, and a moment later three figures stormed through, all heading for the men's. Harry could hear their murmuring voices from inside, and knew he didn't have long before they'd burst out and find him. With his left arm still burning and strapped against his chest, Harry darted from his hiding place and headed out of the hallway, onto the other platform.

This platform was empty. Not just sparse of human company but devoid of any light, any warmth. Joy crumbled on the cold floor of the platform. Harry felt the deep set chill in the air and knew what was happening immediately. He turned to head back, deciding he would rather fight the Death Eaters barehanded than be here with the _thing_ that he could feel lurking around the corner, waiting for him to approach.

But then he saw it, and his eyes unwillingly latched onto its figure. A shadow crept from the tunnel, independent from the rest that clung to the walls. It was somehow darker, like a black hole hovering in the air where it glared down at Harry, like it knew him. Like it had fed from him before, stolen memories he now couldn't even remember possessing. Harry had never known how the dementors worked: whether they were individuals or part of a collective body; whether they were born or raised, or just created as identical clones of their predecessors. But either way they all carried the same ghostly shape, coloured that of eternal darkness, and accompanied by a heavy mist that banished warmth from anything it came in touch with.

Harry felt that cold; his skin shivered and the burning in his left hand was fizzled away by it. But as always it seemed to dig deeper than the surface, seeping through his skin, his blood, his bones, entering his mind and penetrating his soul with icy darkness. Harry quivered from both fear and cold, paralysed to the spot. The dementor grew nearer, leering over him, peering into his soul.

Just as its tendrilled fingers reached out to take hold of him, real physical arms with physical bodies grabbed him from behind. His arms were forced behind his back, and a bright white light was flung at the dementor, which cowered back into the tunnel behind. Magical cuffs were tightened around Harry's wrists yet again - this seemed to be a reoccurring event for him. But Harry was lulled into calm by some kind of spell as the Death Eaters laced wards around him which, this time, he knew he wouldn't be able to break. They were too strong, he was too weak, and this was the end of his little misadventure from the Manor.

His left hand had begun to sizzle again, but his time it was different, like a fire gradually going out, spitting tiny sparks as the last embers died. A cloud of dark smoke began to engulf Harry along with the Death Eaters around him, and he noticed an unexpected sensation: the ring was falling off. Of its own accord, the metal band was coming loose from his finger and sliding down it, threatening to drop to the ground. Panicked, Harry scrambled to hook a finger around it before it could fall - it may have perplexed him, but the ring still symbolised Draco, and he couldn't stand the idea of being parted from it. But with his wrists bound, his efforts only made the ring fall quicker and soon it was too far from his grasp to salvage.

As a dark matter engulfed him, Harry was swept up towards the ceiling by it. The ring tumbled from the dark haze and bounced off the concrete floor.

-TRANSITION-

The fire seared through Draco's hand, engulfed in violent flames. His bones burned, stiffened by the heat - his skin ought to have been peeling from his hand by now, charred and melting. But when he glanced hesitantly at it, he was shocked to find that the fire had inflicted not a single speck of physical damage to his flesh. The fire was red-hot and scorching - he could _feel_ it burning him - but it must have been an illusion.

The Dark Lord's eyes were closed. His hand formed a cuff around Draco's arm, and his eyes rolled back beneath his eyelids, focused on thoughts beyond his mind. In between the crackling flames of the fire, a warm glow of green turned the flames a bright shade of emerald. The gem of Draco's ring glowed, and the Dark Lord lapped up the visions of Harry's whereabouts.

When he was done, Voldemort's grip loosened and he stepped away. Draco recoiled from the fire, his hand jerking back, and with it the ring slid from his finger and tumbled down into the fire. Draco reached out and caught it with his other hand before it could be snatched up by the burning coals below. Its surface was hot, and burned into Draco's palm as he caught it. He let go, and it fell onto the stone floor at his feet. Draco inspected his hands; the ring had burned him, searing a thin pink circle into the centre of his palm. But his left hand - the one that had just been plunged bare into a fire - was untouched, bare of any scars beyond the memory of how numbingly painful it had been.

"You won't be needing that again," the Dark Lord warned as Draco reached down to pick up the ring again. It was cooler now, the heat reduced to a dull warmth. "Or, at least, I won't. After tonight Harry won't be leaving the Manor again."

Draco glanced up at the Dark Lord but decided against questioning him. His mouth had run dry. Anxious, he twisted the ring between his finger and thumb before returning it to his left hand where it belonged. It didn't feel right. It was looser than before, as though there was something missing from it. Draco brought the hand closer to his face, peered down at it, and frowned; the green gem had dulled, no longer as vibrant as before. He wondered if Harry was still wearing his. The Gryffindor would be back at the Manor soon, provided that the Dark Lord wasn't bluffing, and Draco's shoulders tensed at the idea - Merlin knew what the Dark Lord would do to him now. The prospect of Draco watching as Harry was tortured seemed worse than the possibility of never seeing him again.

Frowning, Draco removed the band from his ring finger and shifted it to his index, which it now fit around perfectly. Perhaps the band had melted and loosened from his finger in the heat of the fire. It was comforting to have it hugging his finger again, but it was different. He'd preferred it where it was before.

But then Draco was snatched off his feet, grabbed by the collar and hauled into the air by a levitation spell. Draco squirmed and struggled, but the floor was a foot beneath his toes and flailing only made him rise higher. The Dark Lord paced around him, wand in hand, and then flung his struggling body towards the door, which burst open a second before impact. Draco crashed to a heap on the floor, peering back up to find Voldemort towering over him.

"Time to go," the Dark Lord spat down at him. "Lead the way to the ballroom, and quickly. We wouldn't want to be late for your husband's grand return."

Draco rose to his feet and followed orders, limbs stiff and bottom lip threatening to quiver with every step.

-TRANSITION-

The ballroom had transformed since the last time Draco had seen it: At his wedding. The white sheets, tables, chairs, and floral decorations had been torn away, leaving just the bare beige walls and wooden floor.

But dark robes made up for the lack of decoration; Death Eaters filled the room, summoned by the Dark Lord's call. Each one sent a deadly glare Draco's way as he entered the room, and their hot, murderous breath made up all of the air inside. Some of them tutted and rolled their eyes at his entrance. They were bored by him, all anxious for the main attraction: Harry Potter.

The door to the ballroom swung shut. A rustle of robes from behind him gave way to a wand, pointed at Draco's back. The blonde squeezed his eyes shut, knowing what was coming, and -

 _"Crucio!"_

The spell hit Draco from behind, stabbing the centre of the back, and he stumbled forwards in a sprawling panic. His stomach, abdomen, arms and legs all flared in pain, and every organ bashed against another. His muscles spasmed, bones breaking beneath his skin, a surge of respite burning through him from head to toe.

Light laughter surrounded him, much like the grim smile and chuckle his father had indulged in years ago, after a whip of his cane on the sore backs of Draco's thighs. Draco cried out. His mind did this sometimes, delving into painful memories when he couldn't deal with the present. But the memories were often worse, hanging precariously between fiction and reality, close enough that he could feel them thrashing at his skin but far enough that he couldn't fight back.

A whip of pain slashed through him, tied around his neck like a noose so he could hardly breathe. The ceiling of the ballroom above him was littered with bright purple spots, obscuring the face of every Death Eater when he glanced at them and turning them into a hive of pain and mockery. Daggers stabbed at Draco's chest and stomach, sliced him down his back, and two invisible hands instructed by the curse's influence yanked his spine and his ribs in opposite directions. Draco screamed, his voice running dry with the next bout of pain and then bursting out of him with the one after that. It burned his ears, left him deafened by his own screams. But he didn't need to hear them to know they were laughing, enjoying a haughty chuckle as Draco caught a glimpse of hell.

He'd known this hell before; the memories flew at him like burning embers spat out of a fire. The pain became ghostly, distant, and instead Draco's senses were filled with something less present, a memory that still haunted his nightmares.

His father stood above him, the locked door of Draco's bedroom just visible behind his thin, towering frame. Draco cowered beneath Lucius' shadow, his arms cradling his head, with his face pressed into his knees. Lucius stood tall and proud above, a deep snarl on his face, directed at his son. He held his cane in one hand and a picture, scrunched up in the middle of his tight fist, in the other.

"What is _this?!_ "

The thought of that tone on his father's voice, thick with disgust, still sent tremors up Draco's spine to this day. Young Draco folded in on himself even further before his father's cane struck his back and he cried out, writhing on the floor, trying to squirm away from the pain. He whelped, knowing that his father would continue until he felt that Draco had been aptly punished.

"Get up off the floor and face me!" Lucius boomed, his cane raised again in threat. "Face up to your sins, boy, _FACE ME!_ "

Terrified, Draco sat up hesitantly. His eyes were wide as he peered up through his eyelashes at the man who was meant to be his loving father. Tears trailed down his cheeks and stung like rivers of hot lava, creating caverns on his face. The dark blotches on his skin, inflicted by Lucius' fists, were punishment for being too childish to face his responsibilities like a man. His fault - or so his father told him.

Lucius didn't care for Draco's tears. He grabbed Draco by the front of his shirt and yanked him up, holding the picture to his face with a scowl. Draco was racked with guilt.

"What in Merlin's name is _this?"_

Draco's eyes widened even further. The photograph captured Draco and another boy, lips pressed together and hands roaming over each other's bodies, hidden in a corner they'd thought was private. Draco's heart must have stopped for a moment; he was never going to be forgiven for this.

"What is it - a joke? A game?" Lucius demanded. "Is that what you think life is? _Fun?!_ Do you know how much I've had to pay to pry this from the press? _Thousands!"_

Lucius scrunched the photograph into a tight fist and punched, hard, setting a deep bruise into Draco's cheek and throwing him down onto the floor. He clutched his face and bawled harder into his palms. He heard his father curse, shaking his hand to flight away the pain blasting through his knuckles. Draco smiled internally at the knowledge that Lucius shared some of the pain he caused. Sometimes a dark bruise would be left on the man's fist, a branding of his abusive parenting. But that didn't make the punishments any more bearable.

" _Fuck -_ see that?" Lucius held up his fist for Draco to see, and snapped at him to sit up when he kept his face cradled in his hands. "Do you see what you've inflicted on me, Draco? Because this is just the surface. Do you realise the money I have had to take from the estate - what would have been _your_ estate if you could only control your disgusting urges. Do you know the shame you have inflicted on us - me, your mother, the Dark Lord, and everyone who relies on us?"

Draco stared back, face stained by tears. He wished he had the guts to hurl insults at the man in front of him, and throw back his own punches and curses, scream all the hatred that burned through his mind. Sometimes Draco felt he didn't have a father. Instead he had this imposter, this abusive monster who didn't seem to care about anything more than his own damn honour. But Draco stayed silent. He couldn't face that same pain again, and if he was lucky and kept quiet, he might be left in peace to recover before Lucius' temper snapped again.

"Clean those stupid tears off of your face," Lucius snapped. "Stop crying and grow up. If I come up and hear that you haven't stopped, expect another lesson, Draco." The cane at his side seemed to fidget with the threat. "Cover up that mark on your face. And if your mother asks about it, you fell down. Understand?"

What with all the "falls" Draco had suffered throughout his childhood, his mother ought to have been worried about his clumsiness. But Narcissa wasn't ignorant. Despite the niceties and excuses Draco told her - that he'd fallen over, hit his head on a shelf, gotten into a fight with a garden gnome - Narcissa was fully aware of what was really going on. But it wasn't like she could do anything to stop it.

As his father left the bedroom and slammed the door behind him in outrage, the memory faded away. The lingering ache of Lucius' hits and throws turned into the stabbing agony in the pit of Draco's stomach, induced by the Cruciatus curse. His body writhed on the ballroom floor in pain, his hallucination now gone, nothing left to put a distance between him and the torture curse that racked through his body, no means of coping. The pain hit him full force, and he could feel his resistance slipping. Any longer and he would collapse with exhaustion and agony, his sanity capsizing along with him.

When the pain dulled down, the gap was filled with the Death Eater laughter surrounding him. Draco breathed, but still their taunts cut deep and stifled him.

"Oh father, father - no, don't hurt me!" One of them mocked, inducing a chuckle that flooded the room. "Scared, are we Draco? Can't take a bit of pain without crying out for your parents?"

"Silence!" the Dark Lord hissed, and every murmur and trickle of laughter trailed into nothing, each sound stifled by their own fear. The Dark Lord was by no means laughing. "Quiet with your mocking, or you'll be next!"

In a dismissive gesture, the Dark Lord swiped his hand and sent Draco flying to a nearby wall. The blonde's head hit the stone, and he fell into a dazed lapse between sleep and consciousness. His chin fell against his chest and his eyes lulled shut, as he heard a laugh emulate from Voldemort's mouth.

"Ah, Harry! Just in time."

-TRANSITION-

Harry stumbled mindlessly forward into the ballroom, each of his arms gripped by an escort. He could barely walk, could hardly identify where he was - even _who_ he was. His mind was numbed by the strong confundus charm cast on him, meant to make it easier for the Death Eaters to bring him in without retaliation. His feet were unsteady, his head a little woozy at times, and it was a strange, weightless feeling that carried him forward towards the Dark Lord with not a care in the world. In a way, it was calming, to be numbed of any concern. He could enjoy the mere sensation of being alive, without wondering about how long it would all last if he didn't act soon.

But a frown clouded Harry's mood as his careless gaze found a blonde figure slumped against the wall, supposedly unconscious. Harry recognised him, and idly wondered whether he was all right. If Draco was in pain, someone ought to do something about it. Harry swayed, feeling as though he'd received a kick to the head with Draco's appearance, and the spell began to unwind. Before he knew it, Harry had sobered up and darted towards Draco, fighting against the Death Eaters' firm grip.

"Draco!" Harry cried out as they clawed him back, their grip sturdy and unyielding like metal chains. Harry's eyes were trained on Draco, watching intently for any signs of movement. He was alive; the shift of his chest rising up and down in shallow, inconsistent breaths, meant his heart was still breathing. But he was unconscious, slumped against the wall; clearly he'd been hurt. Harry ached with guilt. He should have known that Draco would be punished for his escape.

A surge of magic sent Harry flying back out of the Death Eaters' grasp, and his back hit the wall behind him. Harry made an effort to get up, but an invisible force held him in place. He stared at Draco, sat directly opposite him on the other side of the room. Harry reached out with his gaze, but Draco didn't once look up to meet it. He was somewhere else, knocked out and locked within his subconscious. Harry missed him, but then again perhaps it was best to save him from this carnage. The soft sliver of cloth sweeping over floor boards met Harry's ears, and between them stepped the pale figure of Lord Voldemort, with a grin staining his features.

"We're all here, finally," he said, addressing his Death Eaters first. His gaze avoided Harry's, but he hardly appeared afraid. "All of you, station yourself amongst the grounds, encircle the building. Strengthen the wards and summon the dementors. Not a single person enters or leaves Malfoy Manor, do you understand? For the next few hours this building must be more secure than Azkaban. Go."

A flurry of dark cloud filled the room, and when it dispersed the ballroom beneath was empty, leaving just Harry, Voldemort, and an unconscious Draco, alone with the marble floor and delicate walls. Harry ought to have been terrified, and yet, whether out of stupidity or bravery, he wasn't at all scared, not even when the Dark Lord's eyes met his and smirked.

"Harry," Voldemort greeted.

"Tom." Though he tried to hide it, the old man's smile dulled a little at the use of his birth name.

"Quite a miraculous escape you made. Are you glad to be back?" His gaze flickered towards Draco. "Glad to see your dear husband again?"

"What have you done to him?" Harry demanded.

"Nothing that he hasn't had to deal with before. You might be surprised by how much pain Mr. Malfoy can endure. It's safe to say his father was quite... _Harsh_ with him. And talking of Draco's parents - your little accomplice seems to have disappeared."

Harry frowned, confused. "Mrs. Malfoy? How did you -"

"Oh, yes, I knew that Narcissa was helping you. I've had doubts about her allegiance for years, especially since her husband died. She is a resilient character, stronger than she looks, and very, very patient. I would have expected anyone else to have acted sooner, but of course she waited for _this_ particular moment. She is a cunning woman, and she has taken your friend, Miss Granger, with her. "

Harry smiled. "Good."

"Oh, it shan't be for long. They will both be found, brought back, and punished. Once I'm done with you, that is."

"And what exactly are we doing here then?"

Voldemort ignored him. In three long, smooth steps, he waltzed over to Draco and plucked the blonde's chin from his chest. Harry's shoulders tensed as his inhuman fingers grazed Draco's delicate skin. Voldemort looked up, saw him taunt with worry, and laughed.

"What do you love about him, Harry," Voldemort said, "that makes you squirm just at the idea of me stepping towards him? When did you become so protective over him? So close? You were willing to leave him just last night, after all."

Harry gulped down a threat and kept his lips tied shut. Tom chuckled at his silence and rose back to his feet, stepping back from the sleeping Draco.

"I guess love is strange," he sighed. "I honestly didn't think this would work out as well as it has, considering your history. The idea of marrying you and hoping everything would work out seemed a little farfetched. But I guess all you needed was a little shove. You ought to thank me, Harry."

"For what?" Locked against a wall with his husband unconscious against another, trapped within a few metres of the dark wizard who had killed his parents, his mentor, his friends, Harry couldn't think of anything he was compelled to thank Tom for.

"For helping you to find the love of your life."

Harry stared back frowning, while the Dark Lord smiled grimly, eyes burning black. "It was really you? You made us get married?" He recalled Draco telling him that, but he'd honestly assumed that the blonde had been lying to conceal his own shame about wanting Harry. The idea of Voldemort requesting that they be married didn't make sense, and it had sounded more like an excuse created off the end of a cuff than the truth.

"Yes - you owe me. You are going to do everything I tell you to." He laughed from under his breath. "But then again, you're going to do what I ask anyway, because otherwise I'll kill Draco." His wand pointed down at Draco's sleeping frame, threatening to call his own bluff. Harry gulped, but tried to hold up a façade of calm.

"Then what? I only get one chance to do as you say, and then he's gone? What about the next time I disobey?"

"It doesn't matter. You won't let him die. Not another loved one."

Harry's teeth gritted together in defiance. He raised his chin did his best to glare, but all that came was a quivering bottom lip. "I'm not afraid of you," he insisted nonetheless.

"No, you're not." Satire tickled heavily on Voldemort's tongue, and his smile let it beam through and taunt Harry. "But you're afraid of these creatures aren't you Harry?"

A dark figure crept out from the shadows, floating a few feet off the ground. Its dark cloak was long enough to sweep the floor, and its limbs were long, lanky, just bones draped in dark cloth, dressed like death to hide the corpses beneath. Harry's shoulders tensed, his whole body shrivelling with fear as the dementor loomed towards him. Its cold chill wafted over him and swarmed the air with frozen danger. Harry was forced to sit there, bound to the wall behind by magical constraints, and watch as the dementor loomed over Draco, staring at the blonde with hollow eyes as if he were just a piece of meat to gnaw on.

"No, no, no, no," Harry murmured. His spine quaked, and he pressed his back firmly against the wall, as though it could somehow cave in behind him and let him to pass through like a ghost. A second dementor surfaced from its hiding spot in a shadowed corner of the room, and the temperature dropped even further. Harry's teeth began to chatter, as whilst the first dementor stooped down in front of Draco, and the other headed straight for Harry. He was unsure if he ought to have been more concerned for his or Draco's safety.

"Please, no," Harry uttered through shallow, quivering breaths as he scuttled back into the wall. "Not this, no, anything but this." He couldn't help the words, they poured from him like blood from a wound, silent tears streaming down his cheeks. With every word that flew from his throat the dementor crept closer, bringing the promise of that cold, deathly sensation that came with their touch, infecting every vein, every hair, every fibre, and every brain cell it could reach.

"Quiet now," Voldemort hushed. "We're about to begin."

But whatever he was about to start, Harry missed it. The dementor reached out to him, tendrils of dark matter streaming from its mouth and sucking the energy from Harry's face. His back was torn from the wall, pulled forward into the grasp of the dementor's gaunt limbs. He tried to cry out, but his face was smothered. Out of the corner of his eye he could just about see the blur of the other dementor lifting a blonde figure by the neck, robbing him of his happiest thoughts. Before Harry could do anything to stop it, his eyes rolled back into his skull and the barred gates to his mind fell open, allowing the dementor's cold touch to reach in and infect his memories.

Meanwhile, the Dark Lord grinned, gazing up at the ceiling as though he was calling out to a higher being. "Let's begin."


	16. Chapter 16: White Light

A/N: I'm not sure if I've already made this clear, but keep in mind that this story takes place in a world where the Battle of Hogwarts was won by Voldemort - basically, if Harry never gave himself up. Meaning, he never died. All of the other horcruxes were destroyed, but because Harry's still resided within him, Voldemort was never defeated. Hope you all enjoy this chapter (only a few more left to go!)

Chapter 16: White Light

Malfoy Manor blew up into a beacon of light. It streamed out of every window, and a vibration ricocheted across the whole of the grounds, rippling outwards. The earth gave a violent shudder, and scattered across the grounds, the Death Eaters turned unanimously to see the grand house before them light up with the innards of two souls. The night air seemed to pulsate with energy, and time ground to an agonising halt. Buried within the Manor, in a sparse ballroom crowded with light, the Lord Voldemort's arms were stretched into the air, and a vague smile stained his lips.

The ballroom was ablaze with light. Two beams, each a thick laser of white light, shot out from Voldemort's palms, hit the ceiling above, and bounced back down to stab through the backs of the two dementors. Trapped in a wash of light instead of crouching in the shadows, their dark frames appeared paler, almost translucent. In plain sight, they were eerie, reduced to just bones draped in black dresses.

Draco and Harry were each encapsulated in a dementor's chilly kiss. Their eyes were closed, locked in sleep. Lack of energy had turned their skin pale, and their bodies were limp, slumped against the wall. Everything was frozen, other than a dark figure stood between the two young men: Lord Voldemort. His breaths were the only ones wafting through the air in this stolen moment in time, as he felt the power draining from Harry and Draco's veins and pulsing through his body. The white light shimmered as it poured through his palms and into his heart, making it beat harder and steadier with every second that passed, regenerating the huge, gaping holes in his soul that Dumbledore and Potter had destroyed.

No longer was he an old, pale man teetering over the edge of death. No longer would he trapped by his mortality, forced to treat Harry Potter as though he was precious cargo for fear that the boy's death would reduce Voldemort to an empty shell, vulnerable without his horcruxes surrounding him - _weak_. No one - especially not his followers - would ever see him as _weak_ again.

As he drew the power into his palms and inhaled it from the air around, his skin lost its pale, translucent hue and took on a pink blush of life. His face reshaped itself, taking on a less serpentine look that reminded him of a past image of himself, one held within a diary that had been torn apart over ten years ago, slashed open by a basilisk tooth by none other than Harry himself. Hair grew from Voldemort's scalp, darkening into a luscious brown, and his eyes lightened from red to chocolate brown, into a familiar shade that reminded him of the mother he'd lost before taking his first breaths. Now he looked handsome, stunning, and more human than he had in over twenty years. He was becoming young again, his body and soul regenerating before his eyes, and the feeling was exhilarating.

The space was bathed in even more light, and Harry's eyes rolled behind his eyelids, tumbling into a limbo at the edge of his consciousness.

-TRANSITION-

Harry woke in a room bathed in white light. His head ached, so did every bone in his body. But he felt detached, as though the world around him wasn't really there, that the warm air and the pounding of his skull was just an illusion. When he opened his eyes he expected to be sat on the ballroom floor, trapped against the wall by a dementor's kiss with the threatening figure of Lord Voldemort looming beyond. But instead he was standing, and he was alone.

Or so he thought. Harry gazed around, bewildered by what he saw. White columns lined a cobbled walkway, and marble benches sat in the space between. Nothingness laid ahead, spanning out towards a white horizon. In the distance, the faint sound of a train horn could be heard, along with the chugging of its wheels against the tracks.

"Harry?" A voice called from behind him, and when the dark haired man turned he saw Draco, his silhouette dark and stunning against the white drop behind him. His blue eyes were narrowed, stood a hundred metres away, and his frown bore confusion as to how they'd gotten here from the Manor - wherever _here_ was.

"Draco," Harry uttered, and his legs kicked into action. As he reached the blonde, his immediate instinct was to kiss him.

Their lips moulded together and Harry gripped Draco's shoulders, fingers grazing the sides of his neck. Draco's hands rested against Harry's sides, touch light and hesitant. When he pulled away, Draco's eyes were distant and slightly subdued, as though he was numbed to the world around them.

"Are you OK?" Harry uttered, brushing the hair from Draco's forehead. The blonde nodded but said nothing, his blue eyes wandering the bright landscape around them. "I'm sorry I left, I should have realised that he would go after you. What did he do to you? Are you hurt?"

"No," Draco whispered. "I'm fine. He didn't do anything." His gaze darted over Harry's face and then strayed again. Something about the way he avoided Harry's gaze said he was lying. "Where are we?"

Harry glanced up over Draco's shoulder and gazed over the strange unorthodox world that surrounded them. Everything was white - even the air seemed to carry a powdery fog, and the space was bathed in light. It reminded him of heaven, the kind of fluffy cloud version depicted in films. But they couldn't have been dead, could they? Harry certainly didn't _feel_ dead. No, the touch of Draco's skin against his was too real, it burnt too deep into his flesh to have been his imagination.

"I don't know," Harry said. "It looks... Well, it _looks_ like -"

"King's Cross Station," Draco finished for him.

"Yeah," Harry agreed, looking around. His eyes caught on the light which seemed to come from every direction, beaming from the white columns, the cobbled street, the long, winding platforms, and a white abyss spanning the whole sky that burned Harry's naked eyes.

"This is so strange," Draco said. "The last thing I remember is -" He stopped abruptly, staring off into space. "I don't understand."

"I don't think this is real," Harry said deductively. "It must be in our heads. We should be back at the Manor. Voldemort had spies, I think that's how he found me. And the dementors -"

"He used the rings," Draco said, cutting in. "They were trackers, I didn't know. You were never going to escape for good."

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have -"

"No, Harry." Draco's distant expression vanished, replaced by concern that cut shards into his features as he caressed Harry's cheeks. "Don't say that. It's OK, I understand why you wanted to leave. What were you saying about dementors?"

"I think Voldemort was trying to do some kind of spell with them. He's got the wards of the Manor at their maximum strength, the whole place is in total lock down. He was using the dementors on both of us - I mean, if this is all in my head then they're still out there -"

As if on cue, a shadow emerged like a ghost from the edge of the endless white abyss. It grew like mould, spreading across the horizon, and the light around them began to dim to a murky grey fog. Cold bathing the air in freezing tendrils of winter, and a breeze rushed past them, filled with whispers that sounded just like the dementors. A shiver ran up Harry's spine, and panic struck his mind like an alarm. Draco must have noticed; he pulled Harry back towards him and held him close, fingers stroking at his dark hair and words uttering in his ear.

"It's OK." Draco's voice wavered in his throat, as Harry clung to his sides and buried his head in the blonde's shoulder. The wind died down, and with it the murmurs subsided. But the black hole consuming the skyline continued to spread.

"Dementors?" Draco pondered on a whisper. "He brought them to my home, let them loose?"

Harry nodded into Draco's shoulder, one eye still fixed on the darkness looming ahead, far off in the distance. He was anxious, just waiting for a dementor to dart out from behind a pillar.

"Yeah, " Harry said. "He sent everyone away, said something about a ritual."

"A ritual?" Harry could practically hear the cogs winding in Draco's mind, the puzzle pieces gradually clicking together to form a picture. His fingers left Harry's hair, and the dark haired man glanced up to see his eyes narrow, gaze locked on mid-air in concentration.

"Using dementors?" Draco said. "No, he can't be..."

"Can't be what?" The panic in Draco's eyes was cause for concern, and Harry's heart began to pound in his chest.

"That must be what all this light is," Draco murmured. "But it _can't_ be..." His hands shook as they swept across his forehead, then rubbed at his cheeks as though to wake himself up from a nightmare.

"Draco," Harry said, He took the blonde's wrists and pried his hands from his face, forcing him to look up. The blue in his eyes had simply melted away, leaving a dull grey that held a sense of hopelessness. "What is it? What's going on?"

"He's using our energy to fuel him," Draco uttered, soft as though his voice had fallen from his throat and shattered against the ground. "The dementors act as gateways; they suck the life from us, and the spell takes it from them. He's using our souls to keep him alive."

Harry frowned. "That's _possible?_ " he wondered. "Why not do that years ago?"

"It's ancient magic," Draco explained. "Not the kind of thing you try twice. It practically kills the people it's used against; their hearts remain beating as long as the spell caster's does, but their insides are hollow, like a shell of a person, hardly much more than a corpse. They're almost like horcruxes, except that they can't be destroyed. Even if the victims physically die, their souls are still bound to the caster - he can live the life span of himself and two more people - three or four if he's lucky, but they're very rare. But they have to be -" Draco stopped abruptly, eyes wide. His words trailed away.

"What?" Harry prompted.

"Well... The victims have to be soul mates," Draco murmured. "It doesn't work otherwise. As I said, it's ancient, and dangerous. Voldemort must be desperate to even try it."

Harry couldn't quite believe his ears. "You mean we - you and me - we're _soul mates?!"_ he uttered. The blonde grimaced back.

"You wouldn't have thought so, would you? It's just the only thing that makes sense, given what he's doing."

Harry shook his head. "I think it makes perfect sense." They stared into each other's eyes,

But the darkness was looming in closer. It spanned across the sky now, seeming large enough to consume them both. Harry's fingers gripped Draco's hand at his side.

"We have to get out of here, Harry said, and Draco nodded back. "

"Before we don't wake up again."

As he spoke, the floor rumbled beneath them, and the dark spot darkening the walls fractured into three even larger ones, which ate away at the inner walls of reality making the stone columns crumble away and the white mist turn into dark fog. A rumble ran through them, hands tearing apart from each other. A strong wind tugged at Harry, dragging him away from Draco towards the dark abyss that heaven was crumbling away to reveal.

"Draco!" Harry cried, reaching out, but by now the blonde seemed miles away. Draco accelerated towards the darkness as though propelled by an engine, and the edges of his frame seemed to be fraying away, pieces of him scattering into the black abyss. But Draco wasn't only being dragged - he was moving with the current, walking backwards towards the darkness.

"What are you doing?" Harry demanded, having to shout to project his voice across the staggering distance.

"We have to get out of here!" Draco's shout wavered in the air, broken by the rumbling of the ground and the battering of winds against it. Harry could only just about hear him. " _You_ have to get out!"

"Come back!" Harry tried to fight the winds and run after him, but he was shoved backwards by an invisible force, caught in a tornado of hard cold air that propelled him even further from Draco.

"There's no way we're both getting out of here," Draco's voice called, but his retreating figure had faded to just a silhouette of Draco's in the distance. Through the cloud of darkness that began to obscure his vision, Harry could hardly tell it was him anymore. "If both of us fight the spell it will only keep us here, where we can't do anything to stop it. If one of us gives into it -"

"No, Draco, you can't!"

"- then you might be able to wake long enough to stop him. If he's still connected then he's vulnerable - his magic will be unstable. Stop him, make sure he doesn't finish the spell.."

"Draco!" Harry called out. He clawed against the darkness that swarmed around him like a net, entrapping his limbs. Harry couldn't let Draco give up like this, sacrificing himself, not for his sake. He'd just gotten Draco back, and nothing - not even dementors, or the Dark Lord, and _certainly_ not Draco himself - would snatch him away now.

But Draco's figure began to fade, turning from an outline to a muffled shape that hardly resembled a person. Harry's vision was smeared over with black, but he couldn't tell whether Draco had disappeared, or if Harry himself had been drawn into the darkness first. " _NO!"_ he cried, though his words were muffled, the darkness suffocating his words. As the last dot of light faded into nothing, Harry's words torn from his tongue, the train platform disappeared from beneath his feet, and he was left with just the echo of Draco's voice fading from his ears.

 _"Harry, I'm sorry. I love you. Goodbye."_

-TRANSITION-

Harry woke, and the world was frozen around him. His eyes were wet, tears stinging at their edges. He longed to bury his head in his hands and cry, but from the moment he snapped into consciousness he knew he couldn't; Draco had made a sacrifice for him, and Harry would be damned if he was about to waste the opportunity to save him.

Opening his eyes, Harry was startled by a dark figure looming over him, casting a shadow just as dark as its bony limbs. The dementor hovered over him, inches away from surging its ghost-like flesh into his and tear the warmth from his blood. But it was frozen, hanging in the air like a museum display.

In fact, now that he looked around, Harry realised that _everything_ around him was motionless, the room engulfed in silence. Even the air was stilted, making it difficult for Harry to draw a breath - that paired with the knowledge that whilst he was here, awake and out of the dementor's grasp, Draco was trapped in whatever dark cell the dementors had created for him. Harry had to work quickly, before the dementor's kiss sent Draco plunging into insanity.

Finding his feet, Harry scampered from the dementor, his heart pounding from deep in his chest. The dementor hung there, and somehow its stillness made it even more eerie than usual. It seemed less real, just a shadow dangling precariously in the air, no more of a threat than the darkness cast in a shadow. Still, Harry was quick to back away; he wouldn't be quite so fearless if it awoke.

Silence burned Harry's ears, and he gazed around with a frown stuck to his lips. Time seemed to be frozen - and he was the only one moving. On the other side of the room Draco laid slumped against the wall with another dementor hanging above him. He looked peaceful, but distantly pained, and his face was slightly obscured by the haze of the dementor's kiss. Harry's eyes latched on, not wanting to look away for fear that the blonde would fade away if his gaze wavered for a second. But Harry's eyes stung; Draco's skin was so pale, almost lifeless, and his cheeks were gaunt, bony, more so than before. It was like the life was being sucked from him, just as he'd said. Harry scowled, and his attention darted to the Dark Lord, stood in the centre of the ballroom floor.

Tom's eyes were shut, veiled to the world, with his head tipped back to face the heavens and his arms outstretched in front of him. From each finger came a ray of glistening white light, which surged into his palm and then shot out in a laser like beam, each darted towards a dementor and slicing through its back.. The beams were strong, bright, and if Harry looked close enough he could see them pulsating like a heartbeat, siphoning the life from Draco as Harry stood idly by.

But it was Tom himself who caught Harry's eye. He looked like a completely different person. His hair was dark brown, long enough to tickle at his earlobes and fall over his eyelids. His skin was no longer deathly pale, but carried a warm, golden hue of life. He wasn't as young - his appearance looked around 35 or 40 years of age - but his appearance was reminiscent of the memory Harry had seen in Tom's teenage diary in second year, with the same sharp jawline and handsome sheen of cunning. He looked _human_ , no longer the mangled creature that ought to have rotted and died long ago.

He, too, was still, eyes held shut and even his breaths halted in his chest. Harry wondered how this bubble of frozen time was possible; was this a warp in the flow of time, was it even real? Would he turn back any second to see his body behind him on the ground, discarded by his soul as he was plunged into death? He looked back anxiously, but, as expected, there was nothing there. The silence around him dug at Harry's eardrums, and for short moment he felt horribly alone.

But he wasn't alone, he realised, as a flick of Voldemort's finger sent a bolt of energy Harry's way. Of course, he was bluffing. Of course he was stood there like a statue, waiting for Harry to turn away. But the dark haired wizard darted out of the way just in time, as a spell was flung past him.

A crackle split the air, but the bolt surged past Harry, a metre from his head, and blasted through the wall beyond him, sending plaster flying all over the place and leaving behind a large dent in the wall. Then a second bolt surged through the air and Harry dodged yet again, left little time to think before his body moved on instinct alone. Darting out of the way, the sleeve of his shirt was caught by a spark, and he cried out in pain as a burn riddled its way onto his flesh.

Harry cowered behind a dementor; Voldemort wouldn't throw any spells his way with the shadow obscuring his aim. Harry didn't know whether the creatures could be harmed or not, but a bolt of electricity was bound to put a spanner in the works of the spell it was seamlessly conducting. In the corner of Harry's eye he noted Draco's lips twitching, as though tempted to break into a wide smile. He was still OK - for now - and the knowledge only spurred Harry on to move faster, to forget about the singe of burnt flesh across his wrist and get on with the task at hand.

As expected, Tom didn't dare shoot another bolt of lightning his way. But under his breath he uttered another spell and flung it forwards, but it darted past Harry and then flailed pitifully against the wall behind. The Dark Lord's strength was wavering; perhaps the lightning had depleted his energy, or his magic was unstable and far from his control. Either way, Harry stifled a grin; he could exploit the lapse in power and use it to his advantage.

Enthralled by the information, Harry jumped out impulsively from the shadow, and with a flick of his wrist he attempted to toss Tom's wand from his grip with a wandless spell. The first attempt was unsuccessful, the failed attack planting him right in the firing zone for another of Voldemort's lethal bolts. The Dark Lord sent fire this time, fist-sized pellets of coal that blazed like meteors and showered down on Harry. The man cowered away, tried his best to dodge the hits, but his forearms were grazed, leaving singes and burns in his flesh. Harry ignored them, and took a deep breath to steady himself. He wanted to wipe the sly smirk from Tom's face, use his own weapon to take him down. It only took a thought, and suddenly Voldemort's wand slipped from his grip and soared into Harry's outstretched hand.

The Elder Wand felt long and heavy at first in Harry's hold, seeming out of place. He tested his grip, and it hummed against his palm, wielding to his fingers. The wand was hardly reluctant to Harry claiming it; he balanced it in his hand and it felt like it had been there forever. Harry pointed the end at Voldemort, and the old man's eyes latched onto it, seething with betrayal.

"You escaped the spell," Tom snapped through barred teeth. The twitch of his lips into a snarl showed that he was agitated by the loss of his wand, and the fact that he didn't even try to snatch it back with a summoning charm told Harry that he was too fragile to perform wandless magic. Whilst the Dark Lord may have looked young and youthful in his new brilliant appearance, the facade was delicate like china, liable to collapse if he used too much magic too quickly.

"Yes," Harry sneered back, pointing the elder wand straight at its owner's chest. His grip was stern, eyes narrow, fixed on Voldemort's. The blazes of electric white light that had previously shot from the palms of the Dark Lord's hands now hung in mid-air. He stepped out from under them and strolled forward seeming hardly fazed by the threat of his own wand point at him. His eyes stared back at Harry.

"You ought to give me back that wand, Harry."

" _Take_ it back." Tom scowled back Harry's way, lips pursed against the knowledge that he couldn't. The curl of his upper lip formed the exact same snarl as the hideous monster that had once stood in his place. "Go on, take it. What's stopping you?

Tom held out his hand and took a tentative step forward, fingers displayed elegantly with the same ostentatious flair of confidence as before. Yet on this new, younger, human body his advances were less eerie, more charming. It was hardly a mystery how Tom, with his handsome features and Slytherin cunning, had managed to riddle his way into dark power in the first place.

But Harry wasn't falling for it. He raised the wand, pointing the tip at Voldemort's head and steadying his gaze. Tom's outreached hands turned, presenting his empty palms in defeat. But he was by no means backing down.

"I wouldn't threaten me with that, if I were you," the Dark Lord warned, his expression matching his stiff tone. "The spell is ongoing. If I die, the spell collapses, and with it so does Draco's life. If I die, he dies."

Harry's face fell, and for a split second his grip loosened from the wand. His eyes flickered over to Draco, gaze seeking the bright white laser beam stringing him to the Dark Lord. Harry's chest became taunt at the idea of the link severing and Draco being lost, his kisses fading into nothing, just memories. Tears stung at the corners of Harry's vision, and his eyes darted back to Voldemort, tinged with anger.

"You would need to re-join the spell and force me to take it down," Tom continued. His voice was stern and mellow, emotionless. Whether he felt nothing or was masking his thoughts behind impartiality was unclear. Harry narrowed his eyes in suspicion. "Draco told you what this spell does - it's already in the process of taking his soul, although somehow yours has managed to remain intact. If you stop it now without the caster's consent it will backfire, and you risk losing Draco completely."

"You're lying," Harry said, trying to save face in front of the beautiful demon that stood before him. He wasn't any more sure that Tom was lying he was that Draco was still alive, but something about the warning in Voldemort's tone ignited doubt; it wasn't unreasonable to assume that this was a front, an act to kill time and distract him.

"I'm not lying," Tom said nonetheless. "Draco's life hangs in the balance. You wouldn't be able to live with yourself if he died at your hands. I'm only warning you of what will happen if you take the rash decision to kill me." Tom was insistent, but now Harry was convinced: Not a word of it was true.

"I don't believe you," he uttered, voice reduced to little more than a harsh whisper. "Why would I trust anything you say?"

"Are you really willing to take the risk?"

Harry gulped. If Draco died, Harry wouldn't be able to live with himself, trapped by the cold absence of the blonde's touch. But Harry didn't have time to waste; no matter what he did, Draco's life was in danger, and he couldn't - _wouldn't -_ let Tom steal him away. He'd made his decision - there was no going back now.

"Yes," Harry choked. "Yes, I am."

Tom's expression switched from handsome to cold. The skin of his face paled, his cheeks appeared gaunt of any flesh. The monster beneath his youthful mask began to emerge, complete with a snarl to match his serpentine features. The younger face still remained, but its falsity was clear, revealing the frayed edges of his façade. Harry's mouth twitched with the want to grin; he'd made the right call.

"You can't win," Voldemort snarled through white barred teeth. "He won't survive, and neither will you. You waited too long, Potter, you may as well give me back my wand and let me kill you myself, to save you the trouble -"

"No," Harry said, and Tom's words halted abruptly. He was the one with the wand, a curse tickling the end of his tongue. " _You_ can't win," Harry snarled. "I won't let you finish this spell. You need me to complete it, and you won't be able to force me. You're not strong enough. I am. I'll stop you - and it's not like you can kill me. _I_ am in control here. You lent a piece of your soul to the wrong person, Tom."

Voldemort's face warped into rage, and determination seeped into his dark brown eyes. Before Harry could do anything to stop him, he brought his hands together, eyes blaring into Harry's, and as his palms collided a shock wave burst out and struck Harry in the chest. The young man flew backwards, scrambling to keep a hold of the Elder wand. He stumbled to the ground a few metres back, glad to find that the wand was still locked in his grasp. A dark figure loomed above him, eyes glazed over with hate.

"You think I am _powerless?!"_

Voldemort's voice stabbed Harry's eardrums and pierced into his skull, a booming sound that seemed to make the Earth quake beneath him.

"You are WRONG!"

His hands parted, and Harry felt the floor collapsing beneath him as he was lifted into the air. The Dark Lord was unarmed, but it seemed as though he didn't need a wand; he conjured a ball of energy between his palms and fired it Harry's way, as though he'd developed the ability to wield magic with his fingertips. Harry's eyes became wide, watching the swarming blue mist advance towards him. He tried to squirm, but his legs only flailed and he was unable to move away before he was struck square in the chest.

He soared backwards through the air, propelled by the force of Voldemort's magic. His eyes squeezed shut at the ache in his chest from the impact, and his grip loosened on the Elder wand. It fell from his hand, clattering onto the ground beneath. But it was the burning of his spine that made Harry cry out. He'd stopped in mid-air, his back having struck a cylindrical object that felt like metal against his spine, but it burned as though held to a flame.

Harry screamed - his flesh felt as though it was tearing away, and suddenly he was falling, tumbling to the ground and crashing against the ballroom floor, the impact only making the pain dig deeper into his flesh. Laid flat on his back, he opened his eyes, and above him loomed a bright white beam, frozen in time a few metres in the air: The spell, the string that plunged into the dementor meant for Harry. He'd hit it full force, and now the skin of his back felt as though it was burning off, peeling away. Harry arched his back and gritted his teeth together. His mind became blurry; he could hardly think. But the pain only dug deeper, seeming to delve beneath his skin, his bones, drilling into his soul and tearing it into shreds. The sensation was like a dementor's kiss, but rather than numbing his mind into darkness, it struck and tore and burned him from the inside out. The world around him resolved into a white noise.

Then it was gone.

The pain disappeared, and like a light bulb turning on, Harry's eyes snapped open and he sat up, alert. For the first few moments he couldn't see a thing; the world was blurry, just a palette of colours swirled together against his eyes. Something was missing, a familiar weight absent from his nose. His glasses. He fumbled around for them, hands grazing against the marble floor, and found them beside a thin wooden object, long like a stick with bumps along its surface. Harry put on his glasses and clutched the wand in his hand, glancing up to the dark figure ahead of him.

Voldemort was crouched, head in his hands and eyes drilled to the floor. His breathing was heavy, strained, and the edges of his frame seemed blurred, as though the youthful illusion he carried was beginning to fade, his strength draining. When Harry looked at him, there was something missing. He seemed small, fragile, and the heavy feeling on Harry's forehead that he usually felt around the Dark Lord was gone.

"You," Voldemort muttered, still staring at the ground. "The horcrux inside of you is dead."

Harry's eyes widened, and he glanced back up at the laser beam above him. The spell was meant to tear souls from people, and that's exactly what it had done upon making contact with Harry, tearing away one of the souls within him. Unfortunately for Voldemort, it had targeted the wrong one.

But as his head rose, dark eyes meeting Harry's, the Dark Lord didn't appear to be concerned. "It doesn't matter now," he growled through his teeth. "Once I complete the spell, I'll have plenty of power. I can live forever. And I don't need to keep you healthy."

The Dark Lord reached out his hand towards the spot on the ground where the Elder wand had been discarded, but there was nothing there. His eyes darted towards the spot, widened, and his hand began to quake. Harry raised the Elder wand, pointing it straight at the Dark Lord's chest. Voldemort stared back, eyes wide, limbs limp and shoulders hunched. Harry had never seen his features warp into an expression so close to fear. He'd burnt out all of his reserves again, this time knocked back by the burning of a part of his soul. He was powerless; he knew the end was approaching.

"People can't live forever, Tom," Harry said, steadying his wand. "Not even great wizards. Certainly not you."

Tom only laughed, loud and brash. "You're making a mistake," he cackled. "I told you, Draco's dead as soon as you do this. Utter those words and he's gone, dead, cast into darkness, his mind strewn together by loose string. Even if he survives, he won't know you. He won't be the man you love, he might even hate you if he has the capacity to feel such emotions. You will have lost him, again. And all the while you'll know, everyone will know, that you were the man who killed -"

 _Avada Kedavra._

Harry didn't even need to say the words. As it turned out, they came to him in idle thought, spurred into fruition by rage. The spell sprung from the end of the wand in a green bolt, hitting Voldemort square in the chest. The surge struck through him, giving his skin a faint green hue, and his mouth opened in a gasp as though he'd been stabbed in the chest with a blade. His eyes locked onto Harry's, empty and distant, his new-found strength and youth dispersed into nothing. His skin turned deathly pale again, his hair fell away, and lean, muscled flesh dissolved into bland skin and bone. The corpse that toppled onto the ground was even more ghastly than the version of Voldemort that had stood in its place for almost a decade. Hitting the marble floor, the body crumbled into nothing, just dark ash at Harry's feet, shuffling in the wind.

The Elder wand seem to shiver in Harry's palm with the release of the spell, as though witnessing Voldemort's defeat was a relief. Hands quaking, Harry let go of the wand, and heard it clatter against the marble floor. Time kick-started, and with it every laser beam in the room burst into a blaze of light.

Harry was thrown back by the first blast, right above him, and his vision was showered by electric sparks. Harry felt his back hit a wall, but the flood of adrenaline through his veins meant he hardly felt it, and he buried his head in his arms on the ground. Explosions crowded the air like fireworks, smashing windows and leaving the floor littered with broken glass. Green and white sparks bounced off the walls, and even when Harry closed his eyes they seemed to thunder behind his eyelids. The ground shook at Harry's feet, and he clamped both hands over his ears.

Then the sound died down. Harry eased his head up, eyes opening, and a sweep of dark ghostly cloth flew by him: The dementors made a hasty retreat. They took no notice of Harry, or the crumpled body on the other side of the room.

 _Draco_.

Harry's scampered across the floor towards him, a little unsteady on his quaking legs. He reached Draco's form, still unconscious. Harry's hands shivered as they brushed across Draco's cheeks. In his panic, Harry couldn't tell whether the rise and fall of Draco's chest was breathing or just his imagination, and when he pressed two fingers to the blonde's wrist, Harry's own pounding heart drowned out any sign of Draco's.

"D-Draco," he stuttered, barely more than a dry whisper. The blonde didn't react, he didn't even so much as flinch. Harry's lip quivered, and he grabbed the front of Draco's shirt, clutching on tightly with both hands. No, it couldn't have all been for nothing. The Dark Lord was dead, torn to shreds at Harry's feet, and now everything was meant to be fine. He couldn't be too late - he couldn't lose Draco, not now.

But the more he shook Draco's weak frame the more apparent it became that he wasn't waking up. His eye were locked shut, inaccessible even to Harry. He would have liked to have seen Draco's blue eyes again. As his hands loosened from the blonde's shoulders, Harry's composure crumbled; he slouched forward, forehead pressed into Draco's fluttering chest, and tears began to soak the front of his shirt. Harry gripped the material in tight fists, and his shoulders jerked with heavy sobs that racked through him.

"Please wake up," he murmured into Draco's chest through the wet sobs. "Please, Draco, please don't be -"

He couldn't say the word, and could hardly think it, without crumbling into tears. Harry clawed at the blonde, dragging his body into his lap. Draco's face, weighed down by sleep, looked calmer than Harry had ever seen it. His eyes were shut, eyelids lightly concealing the vibrant blue beneath. Harry brushed a thumb over Draco's closed eyes, willing them to open.

He traced a finger down the side of Draco's cheek, his short blonde hair fluttering out of his face as Harry touched it. He bent down, though it killed him, and pressed a gentle kiss to Draco's slightly parted lips.

It seemed crazy that Harry could almost feel the blonde kissing him back. He imagined those soft lips shifting against his, wished that they would, and despite Draco being locked in unconsciousness, the light sensation of a kiss brushed over Harry's lips. He pressed into the kiss slightly harder, slightly deeper, and his hands stroked through Draco's hair; if this was the last time, he couldn't let it slip away too quickly.

A sob welled up in Harry's chest, filling his throat with tension, and he was forced to pull away. But a hand found the back of his neck before he could escape, and dragged him back down to Draco's waiting lips. Harry spluttered out a gasp, taken by surprise, but the blonde dragged him back, pulling him even closer and wrapping his arms around Harry's neck. Harry kissed him back with even more urgency, and his arms tied themselves around Draco's waist of their own accord.

"Harry," Draco murmured as their lips parted. "V-Voldemort -"

"He's gone," Harry said.  
"Dead?"

"Yes." An assured smile reached Draco's eyes and lit up his face. He sat up and slid his fingers into Harry's hair to kiss him briefly again.

"Thank Merlin," Draco sighed, stroking the back of Harry's neck with the tips of his fingers. His eyes were glazed over as he watched Harry's face, eyelids heavy with fatigue.

"I thought you weren't going to wake up for a moment then," Harry murmured. His eyes were still coated in a pool of tears, stinging his eyeballs and blurring the pale orb of Draco's face ahead of him. He felt as though his glasses had been snatched from him, even though they still rested on the bridge of his nose. Draco plucked them off, and Harry's vision plunged into a blurred mess, but Draco's thin fingers swept away Harry's tears and kissed the damp trails where they had fallen.

"It's OK," he heard Draco murmur against his ear, barely audible through his sobs, muffled against Draco's shirt. " _I'm_ OK. It's all over now, Harry, I promise."

Harry's frame shook, and Draco held him close. Behind them, dust speckled the ground: The remnants of Lord Voldemort, scuttling about in the late night breeze. A low shudder ran through Draco's frame, and he watched as the Dark Mark scarring his arm paled, turning from black ink into a pinkish scar. The Dark Lord was dead.


	17. Chapter 17: Together

Chapter 17: Together

Blaise stood in the foyer of the Manor, arms crossed, and scowled at the door. As usual, a deep frown had riddled its way onto Blaise's features, and even the lively air of the Manor around him did little to help his mood. Since the Dark Lord's defeat, just two days prior, the press had gone insane - in fact, the whole wizarding world had. Released from the clutches of Lord Voldemort's reign of almost five years, the people were celebrating. Blaise probably ought to have been at the Ministry, sorting through the cases piled high on his desk in his absence. But instead he was here, at Malfoy Manor, avoiding the paperwork that would inevitably consume him if he returned to his office. A new Minister had yet to be appointed, and the Ministry was in chaos, Aurors scrambling around aimlessly with no leader to dictate whether Voldemort's laws were still in place. Blaise preferred it here, guarding the familiar halls and basking in the silence.

But, whilst Blaise was often described as a calm, reasonable person, he was beginning to creep to the end of his tether. The press pounded at the door and queued impatiently at the front gate, pushing and shoving like a crowd of angry protesters rather than intellectual men and women on the hunt for an exclusive interview with the saviour. Their knocks and spells and screams, and their devious schemes to lure Harry or Draco - or anyone - to come out were irritating at the best of times, and at the worst they became violent. Meanwhile, as chaos ensued outside his front door, both Draco and Harry had the audacity to lay leisurely in their bed, curled up together, most probably naked. Blaise would have stormed upstairs and dragged Draco down by the ear, demanding that he still the reporters crowding outside. But given what had happened the last time he'd barged into Draco's bedroom, Blaise was hesitant to risk stepping in on a scene like that again - he wasn't keen to discover what the two men were doing with the can of whipped cream they'd had an elf send up to them an hour ago.

But while Blaise would be the first to argue that Harry and Draco deserved a few days out of the public eye after their encounter with the Dark Lord, he couldn't deny that he felt a little bitter about the whole scenario - envious perhaps. He wasn't sure he wanted to be a hero, but the idea of coming home to someone who you could hold and touch and kiss gnawed at his mind. He hadn't thought it was something he wanted, but he was beginning to see the limitations of being married to a friend - especially since his feelings for Pansy were a little more than _friendly._

The heavy frown dug into Blaise's dark features even further. Perhaps he was being facetious, but he found it hard to believe that Draco hadn't even so much as provided a short statement for Blaise to read.

Until now. Draco emerged from a corner at the top of the stairs and cleared his throat. Blaise turned, catching the blonde's eye as he descended the stairs. He was dressed in a red velvet suit decorated with silk pockets - certainly not uniform for any normal day, even for Draco. The blonde smiled as he approached Blaise, who looked him up and down with a quirk of his eyebrows.

"What are you dressed like that for?" Blaise smirked. Draco brushed off his laughter.

"I wanted to look presentable for the reporters. I heard you have a slight... _Infestation_." Draco uttered the last word under his breath as though one of them was stood just behind him.

"No," Blaise replied. " _You_ have - and I quite frankly have no clue how to deal with it."

Draco chuckled back: "Allow me." With a flick of his wrist, the front door sprung open, revealing the sea of eager faces stood outside. Draco leaned back slightly, as though recoiling from them, and muttered to Blaise. "Wards around me please, Mr. Bodyguard." Blaise's lips prickled the edge of a smile, as he threw up a few wards to stop any of the press from launching themselves at Draco or causing him any harm.

As Draco stepped outside, the whole crowd plunged into a stiff, expectant silence. The reporters looked to Draco, willing him to speak. The only sound was that of a few opportunist photographers, whose cameras flashed and let out sharp clicks that rocked the air with discomfort.

"Hello," Draco addressed to them, and already a slight murmur of voices disrupted him. "I'm so glad you've all come, although I didn't really think my front lawn was the place to be this season. Welcome, anyhow. I'm afraid I cannot offer much news for you: Harry Potter and I are still recovering, but as soon as we are fit, we will both give statements and accept some interviews. For now, we would all appreciate if we could get some rest, and some privacy. Go home, cherish your families. That is all, thank you."

He stepped down, retreated from the doorstep and closed the door on the approaching mob. He sighed, leaning his back against the door and closing his eyes. Had Blaise not known better, he would have imagined that Draco had just returned from a long day at work. He looked at Blaise and winced.

"How did I sound?" he asked. Nerves trickled unintentionally from the end of his tongue.

"Good," Blaise assured him, although his words didn't seem to provide the blonde much comfort. "Very... assertive."

Draco appeared sceptical. "Enough to get them to leave, do you think?" Blaise shrugged back. With that, Draco sighed again and moseyed forwards to collapse in an armchair nearby, tucked into a corner on the left side of the foyer. His head fell into his hands, and he rubbed the sides of his skull with his fingertips.

"What's wrong?" Blaise said. Draco lifted his head and grinned dully, his smile weighed down by fatigue.

"I want them all gone," he murmured, gazing into thin air as he spoke. "It's strange; I didn't mind so much before. Sure, the press were irritating, but if anything I must have craved the attention."

"Definitely," Blaise said. "But you hate them now?"

Draco nodded, a laugh of disbelief on his breath. "Yes," he said. "Somehow, this bloody Gryffindor has turned me into some whiny child who can't stand a little bit of unwanted attention."

"Hardly," Blaise chuckled back. "Trust me, Harry didn't do that."

Draco scowled, but his smile remained. "What I mean is, I don't care about any of that anymore. I want them all to piss off back to their sad, miserable little lives and leave us alone."

The blonde's head dropped into his palms, fingers clawing at his skull. "I _hate_ them," he murmured to the floor. "I can't stand the idea that they're watching us, judging us, probably trying to pin some hideous crime on Harry as we speak. I don't crave their attention any more. This morning, one of them got a broom and tried to spy in through my window - would have snapped a very scandalous photograph it he hadn't promptly fallen off. Before, I wouldn't have minded if he took a picture - anything for a bit of publicity. But now I can just imagine the look on Harry's face when he sees it on the front page, and it kills me. I'm tempted to give up all this, just whisk Harry off to a cottage in the countryside and not let anyone know where we are." Draco sighed, lifting his head. His gaze wandered off again.

"Maybe you should," Blaise suggested, and watched as Draco's drowsy expression fell to a thoughtful frown. "Anyway, I'll try and get them all to leave. If they won't clear out I'll try to -"

"No, Blaise." Draco shook his head and stood. He placed his hands on Blaise's shoulders. "No, don't. I'm just complaining - ignore me, it's OK." He paused and smiled up at Blaise, a scheme in the forefront of his cunning little mind.

"Go home," Draco instructed. "Go to Pansy. She's not working this afternoon, is she? Then go home, go and see her."

"But Draco, there's too much going on for me to just -"

"No, I insist." Draco said, batting away Blaise's arguments. "We'll deal with it all - it's not like there's a dark lord leering over us anymore. Go home, take Pansy out to a meal or something - No really, Blaise, I am still technically your employer and I _order_ you to take her out. Treat her to some wine, flowers. Tell her how you feel. After all these years, I think she ought to know, don't you?"

With a subdued frown, Blaise nodded back. When he glanced up a smug grin was pasted over Draco's face. The blonde patted Blaise's shoulders and stepped away, his infectious beam creeping across into Blaise's mouth.

"Go," Draco told him. "Let me know how it went later."

-TRANSITION-

The door to Draco's office swung open around noon, and Harry - perched on the desk, mid-yawn - started, almost toppling off the edge. Draco paused in the doorway wearing a narrow frown, his gaze meeting Harry's. But his lips curled up at the edges as his gaze slid down the other man's frame, one leg tucked under him and the other swinging back and forth over the edge of the desk. He was wearing the same emerald green robe Draco had left him in this morning - Draco's robe - and not much else.

"What are you doing here?" Draco smirked.

"Whatever you want me to do," Harry teased. At the remark, Draco eased the door shut and strolled into the room, but instead of heading towards Harry, he passed the desk and collapsed into his chair. Harry turned around to face him, crossing his legs. The robe was only just long enough to maintain his dignity.

"You left this morning," Harry said. "Where'd you go?"

"Nowhere," Draco said, sighing when Harry frowned in response. "Out. Blaise needed some help with the reporters, then I went to the shop. I have to get my affairs in order after the Dark Lord's defeat."

Harry was still frowning. "You weren't there when I woke up. I was worried."

Draco reached out to cup his cheek. "Don't be."

"Why didn't you wake me up?"

"Because I didn't want you to tempt me back to bed." A smile crept onto Harry's face; that was _exactly_ what he would have done. "I have work to do, Potter."

"No, you have _me_ to do."

The blonde tried his hardest not to return the smile, but his lips betrayed him. The dark haired man swung his legs over the edge of the desk and eased himself onto Draco's lap, legs tightening on either side of his hips and hands sliding into Draco's hair. He leant forward, lips tentatively close.

"If you insist on being this much of a distraction, I can always take my work elsewhere," Draco teased, though he had no intention of leaving.

"You think I'm going to let you get away that easily?" Harry murmured, and pressed his lips to Draco's. His fingers latched onto blonde hairs at the nape of Draco's neck, and his back arched to press their bodies flush against each other. Despite his protest, Draco found himself kissing back, lips moulding into Harry's. His hands crept underneath the green robe and swept over Harry's bare skin, drawing him closer and pressing his palms to the warm flesh of the dark-haired man's back.

Harry rolled his hips forward, and Draco's lips parted to realise a soft groan. Relishing the opportunity, Harry slid his tongue past Draco's lips and tipped the blonde's head back as he rose onto his knees. Draco fumbled with the sash around Harry's waist until the front of his robe fell open, and Draco's hands roamed over his chest and back and sides, all gloriously bare and glowing with warmth.

As Harry continued to roll his hips into Draco's and induce from him all manner of explicit sounds, Draco reached for his wand, stashed away in his pocket. He pressed the tip to his chest, uttered a few words against Harry's lips, and his clothes disappeared, leaving only the weight of Harry's body covering him. The brunette brushed his fingers down Draco's neck and over his collarbone, surprised to find flesh rather than fabric. He frowned.

"I was looking forward to tearing that suit off of you," he murmured.

"Sorry, love," Draco said. "It was expensive."

Harry didn't complain any more, and instead kissed him again. He rubbed his hands over Draco's skin, and the blonde could feel a hot pressure against his thigh. With another flick of his wand, a round tub _Accio_ -ed into Draco's hand. Harry dragged his lips away, eyebrows raised towards the pot of lube that sat in his lover's palm.

"I want to do this properly," Draco explained. "No more spells."

A faint smile graced Harry's lips. "OK," he whispered, and lifted himself from Draco's lap. The former Gryffindor turned around, dropped the silk robe to the floor, and leant over the desk. He braced his forearms against the wooden surface and displaying his arse to Draco almost teasingly. Draco hadn't thought he'd be so willing - all this time it had been Harry on top, and he hadn't suggested the idea of switching before. But Draco was hardly about to complain.

He stood from his chair, and bent to litter a trail of kisses down Harry's spine, before he unscrewed the lid of the tub and doused his fingers with a generous helping of the slick product inside. He placed his other hand on Harry's hip, steadying it, and circled a finger around the rim of his opening. A shiver ran up Harry's spine, and the blonde felt it quake through him too.

Harry hissed as Draco pressed an index finger into him. The blonde tensed at the sound, concerned - he'd only done this a few times before, and he was afraid he would hurt Harry. He paused, but Harry urged him to carry on in a whisper that was barely audible, what with the pounding of Draco's heartbeat that thundered through his eardrums. Draco continued, pushing his finger in deeper. Another digit followed, and soon he was igniting tiny gasps of pleasure, each time his fingers delving a little deeper.

The fragments of Harry's broken breathing and the quivering of his muscles around Draco's fingers made the blonde's crotch throb. He couldn't bear the temptation any longer. As he eased his fingers out, a tiny whimper escaped Harry's lips. Draco wiped his slick fingers across his cock, agonisingly slow. Harry shuffled his hips backwards, silently pleading Draco to get on with it. A smirk fleeted across Draco's lips even though the other man couldn't see him. He braced himself against Harry's hip, and thrust into him with enough sudden force to make the brunette cry out, pressing his forehead against the desk and cursing sharply as pain shot up his spine. Draco bent to press a kiss to the middle of Harry's back, a silent apology, but when he thrust again the younger man's sounds morphed in moans.

Spurred on, Draco pressed into him harder, increasing his speed with every push. Harry's hands gripped the edge of the desk, knuckles turning white, and he nudged his ass back into Draco's crotch, longing burning through his throat with every groan. Harry was enjoying this, and the sounds emulating from him made Draco grin. He splayed his fingers over Harry's hips and watched his cock as it sunk past the soft flesh of his ass cheeks and plunged inside. Harry's moans were becoming deeper, louder, longer now, and somehow Draco knew he was drawing near to release. The blonde hooked an arm around Harry's waist and pulled him up into a standing position, his bare back leant against Draco's chest. Their skin blared hot where it touched, as Draco curled one arm around Harry's chest, the other still bracing his hip, and continued his thrusts at a slower, more agonising pace. He kissed Harry's neck, sucking on the flesh until the other man's head dropped back onto Draco's shoulder and he moaned. The sound bellowed through his voice box and Draco felt the vibration against his lips. He felt his orgasm approaching and pressed harder into Harry, but the dark-haired man beat him to the chase; He gripped Draco's arm, and his muscles clenched around the blonde as he released, letting out a deep breath and almost collapsing back onto Draco.

Stumbling backwards, Draco fell into his chair, detaching from Harry in the process. Harry turned around, sated by the orgasm still rolling over him, and his face looked serene in the moment, coupled with the glow of his sculpted body in the dim light. Taking Draco's hand, he mounted the blonde's lap again, and placed Draco's hands at his hips, guiding them downwards. Draco slid into Harry again, and his lips were unexpectedly smothered by the other man, whose hips rose and sunk and rolled into Draco at a painful speed. The blonde tried to thrust quicker, but Harry only detached his lips, shook his head, and rode him even slower. He must have heard the hitch in Draco's breath when he was about to come, as he let Draco's cock sink as deep as possible into him and rolled his hips one last time. Harry's lips muffled Draco's moan as the orgasm washed over him.

Draco's head fell onto the back of his chair, heavy breaths escaping his lips. The sensation rippled through every nerve in his body, making the heat of Harry's flesh against his sink into his muscles, relaxing them. Draco let his eyes roll shut, as Harry draped himself over the blonde's chest and nuzzled at his neck, pressing soft kisses to his throat.

Draco's fingers trailed idly up and down Harry's spine as he felt the other man relax against him, cheek rested on his shoulder, eyes lulled shut and breaths brushing Draco's neck. Draco couldn't stop a smile from dusting his features; he'd been craving Harry's touch all day. In fact, he'd wanted this to be a reality for half his life. But the seconds that rocked by felt like stones crashing down onto Draco's shoulders. He was restless, unable to sit still like this for long.

"I have to go," he murmured into Harry's ear. He pressed a kiss to the other man's temple when a groan rocketed through his voice box.

"Why?"

"I have to speak to someone."

"Who?"

Draco pursed his lips for a moment, speaking through his teeth. "My mother."

Harry lifted his head and regarded Draco's tense expression, recalling what he'd reported about Narcissa freeing him from the Manor.

"I don't think she meant any harm," Harry said. "It only seemed as though she was trying to help."

Draco grimaced. _Help._ His mother wasn't stupid; surely she'd realised that sending Harry away would anger the Dark Lord. Draco caught Harry's gaze, took in his frown.

"Respectfully," Draco murmured. "I disagree. I need to go soon, before she scuttles off somewhere."

Harry pouted. "Five more minutes?"

Draco's expression remained firm for a moment, then eased into a light smile. "Three."

Harry smiled back and kissed him, hands latching onto his hair, and their eyes closed, locking away the rest of the world for a short while.

-TRANSITION-

Later that afternoon, Draco stood alone in the lounge. His smile had been cast off, and in its place a stern, stubborn frown made his tense jaw ache. He fiddled with his cuffs, dressed in a rather elegant set of robes that made him stand up straighter than usual. He'd dreamt a lot of strange things over night, laid beside Harry with his arm curled around the dark haired man's waist, and the dreams lingered, anxious suspicions crawling into his consciousness. Each thought stabbed at his mind, leaving scars in their wake. Words prodded at the edge of his tongue, threatening to plummet off the end. He leant against the back of the couch with a glass of fire whiskey grasped in his hand, intended to still his nerves as he waited for his mother.

Draco took a sip from his glass, but it hardly helped the worry that laid heavy at the bottom of his stomach. The whiskey burned the back of his throat, made him want to gag. The drink usually pleased him, but now it couldn't measure up to the soft taste of Harry's lips against his. All he wanted was to crawl back into bed with him, but Draco was restless. He tossed his glass back onto the table and sighed, as the door to the lounge opened.

"Draco!" Narcissa said, surprised by his presence. Her smile, however, was clearly false; the edges of her mouth curled up into spikes, as though sewn there, and beneath her coarse smile was a look that held deep concern. Draco's frown remained firm and unmoving.

"Good day, mother."

She stepped into the room and eased the door shut behind her, resting it against the frame as though afraid it would snap in half any moment. Tension spread over her arms and shoulders as at stood stiff in the doorway

"What are you doing here?"

"Weren't you told? I wanted to speak with you."

"Oh yes, I heard." Narcissa's gulped, and the sound carried as though a microphone was held to her throat. Usually, Mrs. Malfoy hid her true face masterfully behind a forced smile, almost as well practised as Draco himself. But to her son, who had seen every last one of her masks and false smiles, each and every flicker of her eyes to the floor, every flinch, was a beacon broadcasting her lies. There was no hiding from him.

"Come and sit down," Draco offered, but his voice was just as stiff and taunt as Narcissa's steps as she followed him to the couch. She sat down, perched on the edge of her seat, but Draco didn't follow. He stood over her, gaze leering, almost a glare. Narcissa attempted to stand, but Draco's gaze drilled her back into the seat. He'd never felt so much anger towards his mother before, but if his suspicions were correct, no matter her excuses, he reckoned he had fair cause.

"What was it you wanted to - talk about?" Narcissa stuttered with a smile that could have appeared pleasant to anyone but her son.

"Oh just a query of mine, mother," Draco said. "It should be quite simple for you. Much more difficult for me to get my head around. All I ask is that you actually tell me the truth for once in your life."

"Draco, what are you -"

"Mother, the night the Manor was attacked," Draco interrupted. "The first time, by Fenrir and his pack. Where were you?"

Narcissa appeared flustered. "I was asleep in bed, of course. It was a shame what happened, but hopefully with the new wards put in place -"

"You'd think it would be safer?" Narcissa's jaw clenched, staring back up at her son. Her pride kept her back straight and her gaze stern, but Draco's reserve held just as strong.

"The wards haven't changed," Draco said. "They haven't been strengthened because they were at the highest strength they could be. A shame about what happened, you say? Yes, I would agree - it's a shame that _somebody_ kept taking them down every other night and letting intruders into our home!"

Narcissa said nothing back. Her mouth remained taunt and flat, as her eyes pricked with tears and her cheeks stained a pinkish red from the shame staked down on them.

"You're not even going to deny it?" Draco demanded. With every second his rage heightened, his fists clenched at his sides and his bottom lip began to quiver. "Harry told me. He told me that when we got back from the court hearing, you had Blaise take down the wards so that you could Apparate Harry out of here. You gave him an escape into the woods - with no regard for the fact that they might have tortured or _killed_ him for it - and then ran off to free Hermione Granger from her cell?"

Yet again, Narcissa didn't respond. Her fingers fiddled with the hem of her shirt, head bowed down against her chest.

"It leads me to wonder," Draco continued, conviction in his tone. "Was it you who let Granger into Harry's room that night, to try and convince him to leave? Or, worse, was it _you_ who took down the wards and let the werewolves in to attack the Manor, to hurt Harry?"

She remained deadly silent, and Draco's temper burst like an artery, his voice splattering over the walls of the lounge as red and potent as blood. "Well, did you?!"

Narcissa glanced up, and soft velvet tears welled up in her blue eyes. "I'm sorry, Draco," she whispered, remorse seeping through with the words.

But Draco's temper - short and taunt like his father's - had already snapped.

"I was right?" he stuttered. His words turned flat and unprofitable, stunned. "It was you? Mother?"

He hadn't quite believed it, but now that the confession rolled from her tongue like blood from a fresh, weeping wound, rage bubbled up inside him, bursting from its seams.

"You sided with _him?!"_ Draco cried, outraged. "Greyback? You let him into _our_ _home_ , let him hurt my _husband?_ And for what, to get rid of Harry? Do you really hate him so much that you wanted to put him through that misery, so much trauma that he can _hardly remember it_ because he couldn't deal with the pain he went through! Did you want to get rid of him so that you could keep me all to yourself, your precious son? Mother, I didn't realise you were so selfish!"

Narcissa rose to her feet suddenly and stalked to the other side of the couch, placing it between her and her son as if she were afraid he would lunge at her any moment. Perhaps her fears were justified; Draco glared at her with venom on his tongue, outraged. He'd trusted her. All his life he'd imagined that she was better, strung to the Dark Lord by her marriage, but never really loyal. But here she stood, guilt pasted all over her face, having betrayed her own son with an allegiance that made him sick to his stomach.

"Please, Draco I can explain," Narcissa said. "I did it for a reason - _good_ reason."

"Oh, I understand," Draco snared back. "You wanted to tear me and Harry apart, make me miserable -"

"No, Draco, that's not it! I knew of the Dark Lord's plans, I only wished to remove Harry from the equation so that he couldn't go through with it. I knew the spell would kill you both if I didn't do something - I did everything for _you!"_

"You _knew_?" Draco demanded. His throat burned hot as though he was breathing fire, the flames tickling the end of his tongue. "You knew and decided that _Fenrir Greyback_ was the answer? You didn't think to tell me?"

Narcissa glanced down at the back of the sofa her fingers fiddled with its fabric. "I didn't want to worry you."

Draco scoffed back. He rubbed at his temples to soothe the burning that rumbled from beneath his skull. He didn't think he could handle her excuses any longer without erupting in rage, and he didn't want to do or say something he might later regret. Draco turned away, stretching the distance between them as far as it would reach. He couldn't bare being anywhere nearer to her.

"Well, thank you for the concern, mother," Draco spat, despite trying to rein in his satire. "But I'm not a child anymore. I don't need you leering over my shoulder to keep me safe anymore."

He headed for the door, but as he reached it, a thought blared in his mind and didn't let him turn the door handle.

"I'm thinking of moving," he said without turning back. "I'd sell the house, but unless you want to split the estate, I -"

"It's yours." Narcissa insisted. Draco's gaze flickered reluctantly back towards her. Her expression pleaded with him, begging for forgiveness. But Draco's expression didn't shift from contempt.

"The house is yours, and everything in it. If you want to sell it, it is your right to do so. I'll find somewhere else to stay."

Draco nodded, and made an attempt to duck back out of the door. His fingers ached to stroke Harry's hair and cradle his cheeks, lips cold without the soft touch of Harry's skin against them.

"Draco, I beg you," his mother called after him. He was tempted to ignore her and slam the door as he went. But instead he paused, his hand still gripping the door handle behind him.

"What?"

"Please understand, I meant no harm. I only did it to protect you - you and Harry."

Draco said nothing in response. He'd disappeared around the door frame before she'd even finished speaking, and the large oak door locked in place to form a wooden wall between mother and son.

-TRANSITION-

There was one thing about his wife that Blaise had always loved. It had been the first thing that he'd noticed about her, before the collage of everything else came crashing down, a trap of beauty that snared his attention. Since they'd met at eleven years old, her laugh had been harmonious, intoxicating. It made him smile. Whether he was angry or down, the sound of her laugh breezing through his ears brought a lift to the edges of his mouth. He wanted to make her laugh like that; he was hardly a comedian, but somehow, even his lamest jokes and sarcastic remarks brought some essence of a grin to her features.

He loved her smiles, too, from the teary grin that came with an outburst of laughter, to the shy beam that made her cheeks blush. That latter smile crept onto her face as they sat down in her favourite restaurant that night, couples by a shy "Thank you" that she mouthed at him across the table.

"I love this place," Pansy mused, scanning through the menu.

"It's nice," Blaise agreed. _But the company is beautiful._ Usually he would have fought off those stray thoughts picking at the edges of his mind, telling him things he didn't want to hear. But Draco was right; his feelings had been strung up inside of him for too long.

"You look amazing, by the way," Blaise told her boldly. His shoulders were strung tight with nerves, half expecting her to scowl back at him or squirm at the idea that he thought about her appearance. But Pansy only peered up from over her menu with that same coy, knowing look that made Blaise melt inside, his thoughts jumbling into mush.

"Thank you, Blaise," Pansy said. "You're being awfully nice to me tonight." Her gaze narrowed. "What did you do?"

Blaise laughed a little dryly. "Nothing. I just thought we should celebrate. What are you ordering?"

Blaise waited until after the main course, letting the conversation swerve wherever Pansy wanted it to, and watching her expression sway between concentration and glee as she spoke. Blaise needed a chance to pluck up the courage, rehearsing what he planned to say in the back of his mind. Had he consulted Draco, the blonde would have suggested they leave room for desert - probably with a wink or a wiggle of his eyebrows to couple the remark - but Blaise's thoughts weren't nearly as crude. Most of the time, anyway. He couldn't say the idea hadn't flickered through his mind.

Blaise could feel his palms becoming sweaty, slick enough for his fork to slip through his fingers and clatter down onto the plate a few times. Each time his cheeks would burn in embarrassment, and Pansy would shoot him a playful look, giggling at the nervous expression he sent back. The waiter whisked away their plates and refilled their glasses as soon as they were done, and Blaise picked up his fresh glass of wine and downed half of it in one gulp. Once the waiter had disappeared, Pansy crossed her arms on the table where her plate had been, and leaned forward to peer inquisitively into Blaise's eyes.

"Right, Zabini," she said, her words slightly slurred from the wine that coated her tongue. "What's up with you?"

Blaise feigned a look of ignorance. "What do you mean?"

"You're acting... Weird. Why are you so quiet and awkward? Is there something wrong?"

"No. Nothing's wrong."

Sighing, Pansy pushed the menus and condiments from the centre of the table to the edge, and reached through the gap to take Blaise's hands, which rested anxiously on the table's surface. She squeezed his fingers, and Blaise couldn't help but stroke his thumbs across her knuckles.

"I need to tell you something," Blaise murmured before she could say a word. He glanced up to catch her eyebrows raising. His gaze plummeted back to the table and stayed there.

"What is it?"

Blaise parted his lips, but the words wouldn't come. His throat was constricted, his mouth so dry that any words crumbled. He stared down at the table, willing himself to speak - this wasn't _nearly_ as big of a deal as he was making it. He could feel Pansy's gaze prodding at him from across the table.

"You look so sad. Blaise -" She reached up and her fingertips grazed the tip of his chin, dragging his eyes to meet hers. "What's wrong?"

Blaise gulped. "I'm in love with you."

Pansy's eyes widened. She would have looked amusing if not for the flat line over her mouth, lips slightly parted. She sat back in her seat, her hands slipping from Blaise's fingers. He knew then that he'd lost her.

"Merlin, I thought you were dying or something," Pansy joke, with a dry laugh clinging to the back of her words. But at the sight of Blaise's remorseful frown, her attempts dropped to dust. Her mouth opened as though she was about to say something, when the waiter stepped in and caught both of their attention.

"Sir, Madam, can I help you at all?" he said, beaming through the tension strung between them.

"No, thank you," Pansy said, trying her best to smile up at him, but the waiter was persistent. He raised his notepad and readied his pen though they had given any indication of wanting to order something.

"Would you like to order desert?"

Pansy sighed, frustrated. " _No_ , thank you."

The waiter flashed her an offended sideways glance, and at the sight of Blaise's mournful expression, he pocketed his pad and pen. "The bill, perhaps?"

"We'll let you know if we need your assistance," Pansy said. The huffed, but scampered away, off to batter the next table in the hope of a hefty tip.

Pansy looked to Blaise, her gaze softer. The pity made him sick. His knee shook under the table - he was tempted to leave now and head back to the Manor to pound Draco for suggesting he do this.

"How long have you felt like this, Blaise?"

"A few... Years," Blaise murmured.

Pansy stared back at him with an expression that was half sad, half frustrated. Bursting into action, she dug through her bag to find a pouch of galleons that she smacked down in the centre of the table. She stood receiving an uncertain sideways look from the waiter across the room, and making Blaise's chin drop against his chest in shame. He couldn't bear to look up, until a hand brushed over his shoulder and he glanced up to see Pansy smiling down at him.

"Come with me."

Blaise followed her. Pansy headed for the door, her red satin dress gliding over the carpet beneath her feet, her dark hair swaying over her spine, freed from its usual bun. She really was beautiful. Perhaps she might have thought a bit much of herself back in school, and the memory of her draping herself over Draco as though they were together stung at the back of Blaise's mind, but she was different now. She'd become more mature, more humble, just as driven but not quite so concerned by others' opinions. Blaise had thought himself the luckiest man alive to have married her, and now here she was, walking away from him.

Rain bathed the windows at the front of the restaurant in a silky glaze, and the patter of its weight against the glass made the air ring. The pellets thundered against the pavement, but Pansy didn't even hesitate; she set off into the rain and disappeared from sight around the corner.

"Pansy, wait!"

Blaise jogged to catch up, smothered by the downpour as he stepped outside; his robes were instantly drenched. Blinking through the rain clinging to his eyelashes, his hair weighed down and pressed onto his forehead and the thick drops of water clouding his vision, Blaise could just about recognise a red shape up ahead. He stumbled towards it, hearing only the slap of his feet against puddles of rain and the thunder claps overhead. Pansy turned another corner, disappearing again, and Blaise wondered if he ought to turn back. But he kept going, not wanting to leave her out here on her own.

"Pansy?" Blaise called. He could hardly hear the sound of his own voice, let alone any response. Nothing but a thick curtain of rain laid ahead. Blaise slowed to a halt just as a hand grabbed him by the arm and towed him into a narrow alleyway.

Soft lips latched onto his, and suddenly, the rain had stopped pattering down on his skull. Arms laced around his waist, and he found his fingers gliding up her arms, one hand resting on her back and the other cupping her cheek. He kissed her back as gently as he could bare to, suppressing the fiery urge within him to touch every expanse of her skin and press his lips to it.

"Blaise," she uttered against his lips, her eyes ablaze with light when he blinked across at her. She smiled, her cheeks blushing almost as red as her dress. Blaise tucked a drenched lock of her hair behind one of her ears and she grinned even wider, her eyes trailing to the floor. Blaise brushed his thumb over her cheek.

"Blaise, I love you," she murmured, glancing up at him through the veil of rain coating her eyelashes. They were concealed underneath a flimsy sheet of plastic that had been bolted to the walls of the alley to protect it from the downpour. "I've loved you since sixth year, before the war. I just thought you..."

Blaise kissed her again, lips pressing to hers and leaving a warmth lingering in their wake.

"I thought you only saw me as a friend, " Pansy finished in a whisper.

"I thought _you_ did!" Blaise uttered. "I've always thought you were beautiful, but you only ever doted over Draco and -" He paused, staring into her chocolate brown eyes, her pupils coated in amazement, and wondering whether they'd been gazing at him the same way all this time. "Do you really feel the same?"

Pansy smiled back and nodded. There were tears welling up in her eyes which she quickly swiped away with the back of her hand. "Oh Merlin, we're a mess!" she cried. "Draco told me you felt the same way, but I never thought it was true -"

"You told Draco?" Blaise blurted. He thought of all the times his feelings for Pansy had been brought up by Draco, how the blonde would send him a look that suggested he knew more than he was saying. No matter how much Draco encouraged him, Blaise had never once believed he actually had a chance. Now, his mind swam with the idea that Draco hadn't told him outright.

"Yes, of course." Pansy's eyes narrowed, drawn to the same conclusion. "Don't tell me -"

"That slimy bastard - I'm going to kill him!"

Pansy shook her head. "Not now." She brushed a hand over Blaise's cheek, brushing the frown from his mouth as she pressed one more kiss to his lips. "Let's go home."

-TRANSITION-

"Harry!"

A voice called his name, and Harry span around to see the blur of a brunette woman running towards him and diving into his arms. She clung to him and he hugged her back, despite being a little stunned by her appearance. He hung onto her as though she was the only thing keeping him from tumbling to the ground.

"Hermione," Harry sighed into her shoulder. When she pulled away her hands grappled onto his as Harry watched her, studying her smile. "You're OK?"

"Yes, I'm fine."

"And the... Baby?"

Hermione only smiled wider. "Mrs. Malfoy took me to the hospital last night, to have me checked over." One of her hands detached from Harry's to smooth over the round plain of her stomach. "The baby's OK," she said with a light laugh. "They let me hear her heartbeat, it was... Brilliant."

Harry grinned back. "That's amazing. I'm glad you're both OK."

"And you'll never guess what," Hermione said. "I'm due in March."

Ron's birthday was in March. Harry silently hoped that the baby would be ginger, with hair as bright and vibrant as her father's - although, perhaps not quite such a quick temper. Harry smiled and tried not think about how much Ron would have loved to have been around to see his child.

"And you, Harry?" Hermione said. "Are you OK?"

"I'm great," Harry said. "Voldemort, he's gone. I never thought I'd be able to say that. We can all finally relax."

Hermione smiled, with a look in her eyes as though she knew something that he didn't. "I should hope so. You've healed, recovered?"

"Yes."

"And... Malfoy?"

Harry's jaw stiffened, as Hermione's gaze grew soft and concerned. "What about him?"

"Well..." Harry could sense what she was about to say, the discomfort weighing on her words, making her hesitate.

"Harry, last time I saw you, you said... You told me you were in love with him."

Harry dropped her hands, and his gaze fell to the floor. He didn't want to face this: Her judgement, her confusion at the idea that he could love someone like Draco Malfoy. Harry didn't even fully understand it himself; all he knew was what he felt, and the chill that shot down his spine when the blonde looked his way. Taking a breath, Harry raised his head and looked his friend straight in the eye.

"I do," he told her. "I love him. You might not understand that, you might even hate me for it, but I do."

"Oh, no, Harry, that's not what I meant -"

"He's changed, Hermione. He's not like he used to be, not so much of a prick anyway. He's beautiful, and smart, and, believe it or not, he's caring. So yes, I love him."

Hermione stared back, her face blank. Harry pursed his lips shut, wondering if perhaps he'd said the wrong thing. Then an unexpected thing happened; a smile tugged at the corners of her lips. Harry's brows knotted in confusion.

"It's OK, Harry," Hermione said, reaching to place a tentative hand on his arm. "I don't hate you. You're right, I don't understand - but whatever's happened between you two... If you love him, then he must have done something to deserve it. I'm not going to launch an attack on him, if that's what you think."

Harry stared, bewildered. "You don't hate me? You're not going to disown me?"

"No!" Hermione said, laughter on her breath. She almost staggered backwards as Harry through his arms around her and hugged her tight, relief rushing through him at the fact that he wasn't about to lose the only friend he had left.

-TRANSITION-

Meanwhile, a thin blonde figure lingered by the door. A strange tension curled up his spine at the knowledge that he was listening in on their conversation - it wasn't as though his ear was pressed to the door, but still, guilt prodded at his temples, knowing he ought to reveal himself.

The opportune moment arose, a pause in conversation, and Draco stepped boldly inside.

"Talking about me?" he said, not noticing Hermione's lips twitching as though she were about to speak. "I'm flattered."

Draco headed straight for Harry, took his chin between finger and thumb, and drew him into a kiss. Their lips grazed together briefly, little more than a peck, but enough to score Granger's mind with the image, hopefully making her realise that there was nothing she could say to tear them apart.

As Draco pulled away he grabbed Harry's hand and squeezed it, hopefully conveying enough comfort to still the downward turn of his eyebrows and heavy frown. Then he turned to Hermione.

"Granger," he greeted her starkly with a nod.

"Malfoy," the brunette murmured back.

"I ought to give you my congratulations." Granger's eyebrows raised in surprise at his words. "I hear you are carrying a beautiful baby girl."

Granger stared back, silent for a long moment. Draco could feel the heat of her gaze searing through him, expecting a snide remark to slip from his tongue. But none came. "Erm, thanks," Hermione eventually stuttered, appearing rather bewildered.

Draco beamed. "You're welcome." He wondered why he hadn't tried being nice to her years ago - the look on her face now as she tried to decipher his motive was simply hilarious.

"I've arranged a room for you," he added.  
"Really?" Even Harry seemed surprised, a delicate smile spreading over his mouth as he gazed over at the blonde.

"Yes. You can stay here for a few months, until you get yourself settled. Wonky here will take you to the room, show you where everything is."

The soft patter of an elf's footsteps approached them out of nowhere, and the tiny creature gazed up at Hermione shyly, indicating for her to follow. Granger followed, then turned back as she reached the door.

"Thank you, Draco," she said, and the blonde nodded back, a mutual sincerity strung between them.

The moment she was gone, Draco turned to Harry, frowning. "What's the likelihood that she will set that elf free?"

"Almost certain," Harry beamed back. His face brightened, and he knotted Draco's fingers with his. "What kind of spell has come over you?"

"What do you mean?"

"I thought you and Hermione getting along was impossible. Then again, Voldemort's dead so I guess miracles can happen."  
Draco shrugged. "You care about her, don't you? So, by default, I ought to at least be civil..."  
Harry pulled him close and pressed a kiss to his waiting lips. "Thank you," he murmured. "I thought you might cause some kind of scene."

"Me? Never." Draco drew Harry close again and curled his arms around the other man's waist. "I've been thinking..."

"Hm?" Harry nuzzled his head into the crook of Draco's shoulder.

"I'm going to sell the Manor."

Harry raised his head, glancing at Draco with a questioning frown. "Why's that?" he asked.

"Well, this house is a relic, and it's too big to be sustainable. Not to mention, it doesn't exactly carrying very pleasant memories in the walls."

"Oh," Harry said. He seemed a little subdued, perhaps disappointed.

Draco uncurled his arms from around Harry and grabbed both of his hands, squeezing them tight between his fingers. Draco drew in a breath, nerves welling up in his throat.

"So in light of that," he continued. "And since I didn't really get the chance to ask you before..."

Draco stooped onto one knee, still gripping Harry's hands and gazing up at him. "Harry, will you stay married to me? And move in with me? Please."

Harry gazed down at him, eyes a glistening shade of green that shimmered from behind his round glasses. He smiled, almost shyly, his cheeks flushing a delicate shade of pink. Draco's fingers stroked his knuckles as the dark haired man nodded, bringing a matching smile to the blonde's face.

"Yes," he said. "Stupid question - of course I will."

He dragged Draco back up to his feet and kissed him. Draco's hands tightened around Harry's fingers and he kissed back, roughly as though he was afraid that either one of them would erupt into nothingness any minute. Harry went to take his hands from Draco and wrap them around his waist instead, but the blonde gripped them tighter and pulled gently away.

"One more thing," he whispered, reaching into his pocket. There was a gentle haze over his blue eyes, and Harry watched them, entranced, hardly noticing as a ring slid onto his finger. Harry glanced down at it: A silver band with a cloudy sapphire embedded in its surface, rested around his ring finger, identical to one he'd wore days ago.

"How -?" he stuttered, hardly able to form words.

"I sent someone out to fetch it," Draco explained. "The tracking spell Voldemort attached to them should have dissipated with his death. It was still there, you know: On the platform, just waiting to be collected. Apparently invisible to muggles or something."

"I love you," Harry blurted with a shy smile. "And I'm never taking this off again."

"Hm, I should hope not." Draco's arm encircled Harry's waist while the other laced their fingers together again, like they were dancing. Draco leant forward to kiss Harry, a gentle contact of one man's lips pressing against another's. "I love you, too, Harry Potter."

A/N: I didn't really plan for Harry to be the top in this story - usually that's Draco, so it was nice to have them switch in this chapter. Anyhow, there's just one more part of this story left, which will be up soon!


	18. Epilogue: Home

Epilogue: Home

Almost three and a half years later, the mere idea that a dark lord had once existed and ruled the Wizarding World felt more like a dream than recent history. The aftermath been dealt with in a delicate fashion in the wake of Voldemort's death, while the people settled into a long deserved rest and attempted lull themselves into forgetting all that had been lost over those five long years of the Dark Lord's reign.

In a cottage on the edge of small town, two rather famous men lived, trying to numb away their suffering just like anyone else. To them a short kiss was like treasure, and expanse of skin tasting more like the finest of liquors against a hungry tongue. Every encounter was as magical as the first, as alluring, as beautiful. With Draco's limbs latched around his as they laid on the couch and the fire humming with warmth, neither could imagine another place they would rather be.

Draco bit at Harry's bottom lip, and grinned when the dark haired man groaned back. Harry dug his fingernails into Draco's back as the blonde ground their hips together once more, Draco's crotch lowering and then raising again teasingly just to make Harry moan and squirm for more contact. The former Slytherin was practically cynical in his devilish grins and feisty behaviour, but after all this time, Harry was used to it - in fact, he loved it.

"Ready for a little treat, Potter?" Draco's lips had crawled their way to Harry's ear, and his teeth nibbled against his earlobe as Harry tried to comprehend what he was saying.

"For me? How sweet."

"Hm," Draco hummed, kissing Harry's neck and nuzzling his face underneath the other man's chin. His lips began to trail downwards, skirting across Harry's chest, teeth grazing over his nipples and tongue sliding over his stomach. A smile crept onto Harry's face as Draco's tongue began to flick over the head of Harry's cock. He could already feel his skin humming in anticipation, knowing the hot wet sensation that would soon encompass him, and rocking forwards to coax Draco's mouth closer.

Draco engulfed him, and then the euphoria began. Harry's head fell back against the arm of the sofa and his back arched like a cat into Draco's soft wet touch. The blonde's head dipped low brushing the head of Harry's cock against the back of his throat, before drawing back slowly and leaving a trail of saliva down the lower side of the shaft. His tongue flicked over the head, lapping up the pre-come, as his eyes glanced up at Harry, whose eyes had drifted shut.

As Draco continued, Harry's hand found the back of his head and gripped the blonde hair in a fist. The plush fabric couch beneath his back could have been a cloud, the fire a beacon of light emitted from a star - the whole world could have been torn down around them and Harry wouldn't have cared, so long as Draco's lips remained taunt around him with that ridiculous tongue of his working its magic.

Harry's head fell to the side, fingers brushing over at soft blonde locks as Draco's own hands stroked up and down the warm skin at his sides. Harry moaned as Draco deep-throated him and then drew back, teasing as he always did. Harry opened his eyes and his gaze found the brass clock sat on the mantle piece, and any pleasure was swiped from his mind in an instant.

"Shit," he cursed in a hiss, then louder: "Shit! Draco, get up!"

Harry squirmed, sitting up to swing his legs from the couch. But Draco, though his lips had detached from Harry and turned a delicious shade of pink, didn't let go. His fingers clamped onto Harry's hips and his weight kept the dark haired wizard still.

"Let go," Harry demanded. Draco smiled and stroked his thumb over Harry's hipbone.

"Calm down," the blonde uttered. "Relax and let me do what I do."

Harry sent him a dangerous look before his eyes flickered anxiously towards the clock, whose hands teetered a little too close to six o'clock for his liking.

"Hermione's bringing Rose here at six o'clock - that's _ten minutes_ , Draco! And I haven't even made her bed yet!"

Frowning, Draco followed Harry's anxious gaze to the clock and shrugged. "Trust me, Potter, this shouldn't take ten minutes - well, I could _make_ it last that long, but you get the idea -"

"Malfoy!" Harry snapped back, attempting to pry the other man's hands from him. "This isn't a joke! Do you really feel comfortable with my _best friend_ and a _three year old_ walking in on _this?!_ Let me go!"

Draco only held on tighter, and ducked forward to press a stolen kiss to Harry's lips. He laughed when Harry made a futile attempt to pull away. "You know I'm not going to give in," Draco grinned. "And the longer you fight me, the longer this is going to take. Now lay back, and _relax_."

He placed a palm flat against Harry's chest and gently pushed him back, until he was laid against the couch cushions once again.

Draco pressed a kiss to Harry's navel. "Please relax, baby," he murmured against the skin, but from then on his mouth was occupied, unable to oppose Harry's agitated frown.

His palms ran flat over the sides of Harry's thighs, but the dark haired man couldn't help from flickering towards the clock, even as Draco's tongue curled around the bottom side of his cock, sucking hard and then delving deeper. Harry had to stifle a groan as he felt the head ease its way to the back of Draco's throat; he couldn't give Malfoy the satisfaction of knowing that he enjoyed this, given his reluctance. But the sensation of Draco's skin against his, their bodies latched together, would never cease to take his breath away.

Nearing the edge, Harry couldn't help himself - he grappled for Draco's hand to clutch beside him, their fingers clicking into place like clockwork. Draco silently squeezed his hand, and as a wave of release came over him, Harry squeezed his back and he released. He looked down to see Draco's mouth clamp around him and his throat jerk as he swallowed.

Harry's head fell against the couch, and he heard Draco sit up, his hand still holding onto Harry's. He leant forward, placed his other hand on Harry's chest and kissed him. There was a lingering saltiness coating his tongue. They kissed deeper, and by the time they pulled away, Draco was grinning down at Harry again. He was strange sometimes: _Harry_ had just got off, and yet _Draco_ was the one smiling like an idiot. But his usual sarcasm returned as soon as he opened his mouth, coating his tongue.

"Happy now?" he murmured, lips just centimetres from Harry's. He sunk forward to kiss him again and his hand crawled from Harry's chest to his hairline, pulling him closer by the back of the neck.

"Mm," Harry hummed back through the kiss. "I mean, _no_." He towed his lips from Draco's in a flight of panic. "Get off - and get dressed! Hermione's going to be here any minute!"

Draco sat back up, and Harry darted from the couch. He began hastily pulling on his clothes, strewn across the floor around them. Dressed, the dark haired man signalled for Draco to get up, and flicked his wand at the couch to clean away any remnants of the last five minutes. He glanced to the clock, anxiety scrawled across his brow.

"Get dressed!" he snapped at Draco, who jumped into action and pulled on his trousers. "Shit, I still have to get Rose's room ready - why the _hell_ did I let you distract me!"

Draco sighed, tugging a shirt over his head and combing his hair back to its usual pristine condition. "Would you calm down a little? What's the likelihood that they'll get here at six on the dot?"

Harry scoffed. "Don't forget that this is _Hermione_ we're talking about." He headed for the stairs. "I'm just going to go and -"

Draco grabbed his wand from the end table and flicked it towards the ceiling, sending blue sparks darting across the ceiling. "There. Bed made, surfaces dusted - and I cleaned the bathroom while I was at it."

Harry looked back from the bottom of the stairs and scowled. "You know, you don't have to use magic for _everything_."

Draco strolled across the living room to where he was perched on the first step. "Well no, I don't _have_ to. But why not?" He curled his arms around the other man's waist and rested his chin against Harry's chest, gazing up at him. "Gives us about... Two minutes of leisurely snogging?"

A tiny smile fleeted across Harry's features, and he leant in to press his lips to Draco's for just a moment. But, inevitably, his nervousness tugged him away again.

"I should make tea," he said, and darted off to the kitchen. Draco sighed, shoulders heaving and hands slapping down at his sides, just as the doorbell echoed around him.

"Get the door!" Harry called, and Draco couldn't help rolling his eyes with a dull smile.

"Yes, I know what the calling of a doorbell means, Potter!" he called back, then headed to open the door.

On the other side of the door, a brunette young woman stood with a child's backpack slung over her shoulder, and a tiny pale hand grasped in hers. A beaming smile met Draco on the face of the red haired toddler stood beside her, and with a giggle Rose let go of her mother's hand and raised both arms up to Draco.

"Hello, my little pumpkin!" Draco said as he reached down to pick her up, grabbing her under the arms and making her fire-red hair swing about her head as though it defied gravity. Rose cried with a peel of laughter and kicked her legs about. Draco planted a kiss on her cheek and carried her against his hip. "You've grown big, haven't you?"

Hermione, still standing on the doorstep, watched with a beaming smile at her daughter's happiness. When she caught Draco's gaze, her smile didn't fade. "Hello," she greeted shyly.

"Hi," Draco smiled, and stepped back to let her through. "Come on in."

Back in the living room, an array of mugs and a pot of hot tea had been placed in the middle of the coffee table, placed too far from the edge for Rose's prying little hands to grab at. Harry stood by the fire, prodding the logs into the middle with a metal stick before placing it high on a shelf above the mantel piece. At first it had been strange to baby proof the house, but now it was second nature for the both of them to keep anything harmful out of her curious reach, even when she wasn't around.

"Harry!" Rose cried out in glee. Draco lowered her to the ground, and she stumbled towards the other man, who bent down to catch her with open arms and a full smile.

"Hello!" Harry said as he hugged her close, her tiny limbs just managing to reach his shoulders. Her hair practically disappeared against Harry's crimson shirt, fanned out around her head like a flame. Though Draco had disliked the Weasleys at school, her ginger hair certainly made it easier to spot her when she skittered off into a crowd unexpectedly.

"Are you excited for your birthday?" Harry said. "Just - what - eight more sleeps?"

"Yeah!" Rose nodded, jumping up and down on the spot with her hands clutching onto Harry's. "Mummy said we can have a party - with balloons, and presents and _elves!"_

Harry laughed, as Draco smiled and he shook his head. Merlin - of _course_ Hermione Granger's daughter would have a slightly unhealthy obsession with elves.

"She's grown so much since we last saw her," Harry said, glancing up at Hermione. She smiled, gazing after Rose as she scampered off to play with the doll house that was set up in the corner of the room for her, charmed with a tiny family of dolls that moved of their own accord. Harry rose from the ground and stepped over to hug Hermione.

"How was Australia?" he asked as they both pulled away and sat down on the sofa. Draco took a seat in the armchair by the fire and ensured that the wards around it were secure to keep little pumpkin from stumbling into the flames, before helping himself to a strong cup of tea.

"Oh, it was beautiful. Maybe a bit hot for my liking, but despite the sunburn, Rose loved it."

"How are your parents? Do they love her?"

Hermione grinned. "Absolutely. Mum begged me to stay longer."

"Did you... Tell them?" Draco intercepted, and Hermione's smile faded, replaced by an anxious biting of her lip. She knew what he was referring to and so did Harry - her little furry problem which propped up every four weeks when the moon was ripe.

"No," she admitted, glancing down at her lap. "No, I couldn't. I didn't know how to. I mean, what are they going to think of their granddaughter being raised by a -" She couldn't say it, she never could. They'd come up with a number of euphemisms for her condition between the three of them, but the word 'werewolf' was never so much as uttered. Hermione sighed. "I'm not sure I want them to know."

"You've got to tell -" Draco began, but his words were cut swiftly off by a stern look from Harry. Draco quietened reluctantly, but Potter was right. The subject would only upset Hermione, and poor little Rose really didn't need to see her mother stifling tears.

"Do you have time to stay?" Harry offered, but when Hermione glanced up at the clock, and then double checked the watch at her wrist; she didn't have much time. Her little 'time of the month', as they often referred to it, was so close Draco could practically smell it on her, a poignant scent that clung to her hair and clothes. Wolfsbane had become a rare commodity after the war, especially what with all the new werewolves Fenrir Greyback had ruthlessly turned over the years. So for now, Hermione had to deal with transforming in the woods where nobody could be hurt, and refrain from using the vile of wolfsbane she kept in her pocket at all times except for emergencies. Tonight, she had about an hour until the sun set and the moon began to shine out, cracking her bones into a few form.

"No, I should go," she said. "Thank you, though. Thank you for doing this - both of you."

"You don't need to thank us," Harry told her.

"She's a pleasure," Draco added. "A little devil at times, but a pleasure nonetheless."

Hermione smiled up at him, then turned back to Harry and planted a kiss on his cheek.

"We'll see you tomorrow, won't we?" Harry said just before she left.

"Yes, of course," Hermione promised. "I wouldn't miss it for the world."

-TRANSITION-

With the weather just tipping into spring, the air was cold with the remnants of a winter breeze as it swung through the church grounds. Grass rustled on the ground, its green hue beginning to return, and the previously bare trees were dusted with pink speckles of cherry blossom.

A car rolled up to the church gates and parked outside, its black shell glistening in the late morning light. As the engine cut off, a door eased open and a young woman stepped out of the back seat, a small child in tow. The young girl bounced on the spot, excited, staring up at her mother, who wore a tired look. Hermione's eyes were damp and drooping with the dark bruises of a night without rest.

"Calm down, darling," she said gently to Rose, who stopped jumping and grinned up at her mother. Hermione tucked her daughter's ruffled ginger hair behind her ear and combed it flat. "You know why we're here, don't you? To visit your dad?"

Rose nodded, but it was obvious by her smile that she was still too young to understand exactly what that meant. Just then, the passenger door opened and Harry stepped out. His skin was almost grey, grief weighing down his gaze. He looked out on the church ground before them, spotting the graveyard and feeling his spine stiffen, muscles quaking.

"Harry?" Hermione uttered. Her face held concern. Harry glanced back at her, shook his head and waved a hand in the direction he'd been staring.

"Go ahead," he told them, faking a smile. "We'll catch up."

Hermione nodded, quickly fetched a bouquet of flowers from the back seat, and took Rose's hand to guide her on into the graveyard ahead.

"Hey, Potter?" The driver's side door swung open. Draco stepped out of the car and called over the top of it, arm slung over the open door. "Isn't a memorial meant to be held on the day someone died, rather than their birthday?"

He waited, but Harry offered him no answer; he didn't even turn to face Draco, showing no sign that he'd even heard the blonde's question.

"Harry?" Draco said gently, and with no response he swung the door shut, pacing around car towards the other man. At the sight brimful Harry's eyes of tears that trailed down his cheeks, Draco wrapped both arms around his husband's shoulders and pulled him close.

"That was insensitive," he admitted, even though he knew that his comment wasn't what Harry was crying about. "You can have a memorial whenever you want, I'm sorry."

Harry drew in a long, quaking breath. "I just can't believe he's dead. Even after all this time." His words were muffled by Draco's coat, his face buried into the blonde's shoulder.

"I know." Draco pulled away and leant against the car behind them, one arm still curled around Harry's shoulders in an effort to provide a little comfort. "It's hard. You don't get used to them being gone, but you have to try to keep going."

Eyes squeezed shut against the flood of tears concealed behind his eyelids, Harry covered his face with a hand and pressed his forehead into Draco's shoulder. "I'm sorry," he sniffled, as Draco combed back the dark hair at his crown and bent to kiss it.  
"Don't apologise," he whispered. "Harry, you're allowed to cry."

Harry shook his head. "No, I mean your father." He lifted his head, and his eyes, edges raw with stinging tears, gazed over at Draco. "I know you must miss him."

"Yes," Draco said, but then his eyes narrowed and he shook his head. "But it's not about him today."

"It's about Ron." Harry drew a quaky breath and wiped his eyes on the sleeves of his coat. He looked out upon the graveyard, and spotted four figures huddled together. Harry's eyes found a familiar child with bright ginger hair.

"Merlin," Harry cursed. "Rose is never going to meet her father. She's getting to the age when she's going to start understanding life and death, and she's probably going to ask where her dad is... And Hermione's going to have to tell her that he's gone, and he's never coming back. She doesn't even have a single memory of her father - for all she knows, he never existed."

"You don't have any memories of your parents either, Harry," Draco pointed out, wiping a stray tear from Harry's skin. "And how did you manage to remember them? Through their friends, telling you how brilliant they were and what they did for you - how much they _loved_ you. So you need to go and remember Ron twice as much as anyone else, because little pumpkin is going to need those memories."

Harry gazed back at Draco with eyes only half open, lulled slightly shut. He leaned forward and pressed his tear stained lips to Draco's for a brief moment. "I love you," he said.

He took Draco's hand and they strolled into the graveyard and towards the small gathering that had formed. Their footsteps sunk slightly into the ground beneath them, sodden with overnight rain, but it was the short gravestone prodding out from the ground up ahead made Harry draw a quaky breath, and clutch Draco's hand tighter. Standing around it, on one side, were Hermione and Rose, who was cradled against her mother's side and buried her head in Hermione's light brown hair. On the other side were Pansy and Blaise, whom it was a surprise to see. Pansy's jacket was open despite the chill, and her jumper beneath was stretched over a swollen stomach; she was pregnant, due in only a few weeks time.

"We wanted to pay our respects," Blaise explained before anyone had the chance to ask.

"Thank you for coming," Harry nodded back, receiving a pitied smile back from Blaise. His arm tightened around Pansy's waist, and she rested her head on his shoulder.

"Well, if we're all here," Hermione began, and uttered something into her daughter's ear. Rose nodded and Hermione lowered her to the ground. The young girl pulled from her pocket a single flower to place on the ground beneath Hermione's bouquet. It was a white rose, which stuck out among the yellows and reds of the other flowers, and the sombre grey backdrop of the tombstone. It was very appropriate, Harry thought with a dim smile.

Rose stumbled back to her mother, and Hermione took a quaking breath. "We're here to remember Ronald Weasley, arguably the most brilliant man I've ever met..."

Draco squeezed Harry's hand gently as she spoke, an offering of comfort. Harry smiled back at him, and squeezed gently back. Finally, everything was going to be OK.

THE END

A/N: And that's it, the end! I have enjoyed writing this so much, and I hope you've enjoyed reading it. If you did, be sure to check out some of my other fics and leave me a review to let me know your thoughts. Thank you all for reading!


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